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BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR 



RHYTHMIC STUDIES OF THE WORD. VOL. 1 
RHYTHMIC STUDIES OF THE WORD. VOL. 2 

12mo, net, each, 75 cents 



Rhythmic Studies of Life 

and 

Miscellaneous Verse 

By J. M. CAVANESS 

Introduction by 
SAMUEL A. LOUGH, Ph.D., LL.D. 

President of Baker University 



ppi" 



THE ABINGDON PRESS 
NEW YORK CINCINNATI 






^<U* 



** 



Copyright, 1918, by 
J. M. Cavaness 



GEC 30 1918 

©CU51J085 



TO 

MRS. WINONA STEWART CAVANESS 

AND 

MRS. ORA ALLEN CAVANESS 

MY DAUGHTERS-IN-LAW 

WHOM I LOVE AS MY VERY OWN 

I DEDICATE THIS VOLUME 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Introduction 13 

Author's Note 15 

Near Life's Quiet Byways 17 

Man in the Making 19 

New Hope 24 

Poesy 25 

Music 25 

The Poet 27 

What Is a Book? 28 

The Unseen 29 

Let Us Forget 30 

Recognition 30 

The Open Ear 32 

Dear Books, Sing to Me 33 

Triumph in Defeat 33 

Untrammeled 35 

Joy 36 

The Man Who Walks Alone 37 

Nothing Lost 38 

The Soil and the Seed 39 

The Unspoken Rebuke 40 

By the Sea 41 

The Soul of Honor 42 

The Linotype 44 

The Culprit 45 

The Dreams of Youth 47 

Life's Incompleteness 48 

Effect and Cause 49 

Inertia ! 50 

7 



PAGE 

Gratitude 51 

Looking Backward 52 

A March Day 52 

The Infinite Patience 53 

The Labyrinth op Life 54 

Longing 55 

Why Worry? 56 

"Beauty Is Only Skin Deep" 57 

The Distant Mountains 58 

The Worship of Work 59 

After Many Years 60 

Ethereal Souls 60 

Poverty 61 

The Chrysalis 62 

Rest 62 

Tomorrow 63 

The Three Mothers 64 

Pain 65 

The Secret Call 66 

I Heard a Bird 66 

The Human Soul 67 

One More Pebble 68 

The Two Angels 68 

The Seen and the Unseen 69 

Compensation 70 

Awake 70 

Life's Tangled Thread 71 

Let Us Bury Our Dead 72 

It Might Have Been 72 

If I Should Ever Be a King 73 

The Tempter 74 

A Maid and Her Two Suitors 75 

To Me and You 76 

The Higher Purpose 77 

"Where Are the Nine?" 78 

Reason and Faith 79 

If I Had Known 80 

Delusion 82 



PAGE 

Lend a Hand 83 

Temples 84 

My Wish for You 85 

Forget It 86 

Indian Summer in Kansas 87 

Don't Go to Seed 88 

The Little Town 89 

Dependence 90 

Simon op Cyrene 91 

My Guests 92 

Poking the Fire 92 

Wherefore Grieve? 93 

He Is Not Growing Old 94 

Beyond 95 

Say It to His Face 95 

The Days of Old 96 

The Maple Trees 97 

The Valley of the Blest 98 

Blind and Deaf and Dumb 99 

That Little Candle 100 

Blind Milton 101 

Long After I Go Hence 102 

Let Me In 103 

"Heads I Win" 104 

The Town Booster 105 

How Did He Live? 105 

Live Your Own True Life 106 

Disparaged 107 

The Archer 108 

The Funeral of a Babe 109 

The Smile of God 1 10 

"Liz" 110 

Jake and Jim Ill 

Watching the Fire 114 

Begin Anew 1 14 

William McKinley 115 

Home 118 

Why Build We Here? 119 

9 



PAGE 

College Life — Then and Now 123 

Would It? 129 

Father Time 130 

PEACE AND WAR. 

Freedom and Fraternity 137 

Liberty 138 

Song of the Allies 139 

Expediency . 139 

Arouse, America 141 

The Travesty of It All 142 

What Will the Answer Be? 143 

Kansas to the Allies 143 

"War Is Hell" 144 

Lecompton 146 

The Pale Horse 147 

The White Man's Burden 148 

Awake, O Kansas 149 

The Flag • 149 

A Veteran's Camp Fire 150 

Monarch or Man 151 

The Man Behind the Plow 152 

"Our Father" 153 

Elihu Root at Petrograd 154 

Our Patriot Fathers 155 

Hail the Flag 156 

Killed in the Philippines 157 

Early Days in Kansas 159 

Cecil A. Rowan 161 

PERSONAL. 

Prof. Thurlow Lieurance 163 

George W. Martin 163 

Flagman John Axcell 164 

Newton N. Riddell 165 

"Inasmuch" 166 

Olivia 167 

Thirty-five 168 

10 



PAGE 

Two Score Years 168 

Two Score and Ten 169 

Sixty Years 170 

To A. A. B. Cavaness, My Brother 171 

To Charles W. De Wolfe 172 

To Rev. J. R. McFadden 173 

To Mr. and Mrs. M. P. Helmick 174 

To Mr. and Mrs. D. M. Kennedy 175 

The Flying Years 176 

Theodore Roosevelt 177 

To Prop. Arthur P. Allen 179 

Two Years Later 180 

To Walt Mason 181 

Mrs. Elizabeth Rudolph Swallow 182 

The Visit 183 

To Miss E. M. C 185 

To My Mother . , 185 

BEYOND THE GATES. 

Eugene F. Ware 187 

Miss Grace Holaday 187 

Joseph Irving Taylor 188 

Clara Barton 189 

Frances E. Willard 190 

The Winds 191 

Noble Lovely Prentis 192 

"After Awhile" 193 

John S. Gilmore 194 

On the Drowning of a Young Lady 195 

Seventeen Sweet Years 196 

Rev. J. H. Price 197 

The Three Kisses 197 

Rev. James C. Hall, D.D 199 



(Critical readers will find in the verses in this volume some pecu- 
liarities in spelling and in arrangement. Though differing from the 
usual style of The Abingdon Press, they are allowed in deference to 
the author's desire.) 

11 



INTRODUCTION. 

We have come to think of the name of Cavaness 
as a guarantee of high quality. We have laughed 
with him in "Jayhawker Juleps," and worshipped 
with him in "Rythmic Studies of the Word." The 
laughter is free and hearty with no occasion to 
apologize for compromising features. The wor- 
ship is elevating and inspiring, leaving us grateful 
for the spiritual insight and fascinating artistic 
expression which helps us to see clearly and feel 
profoundly. 

We are prepared to give a favorable reception 
to this new volume, "Rythmic Studies of Life." 
The reader will not be disappointed. The 
"Rythmic" is vital as well as formal. With the 
same insight and human sympathy common else- 
where in his verse, the author has given expression 
to human perplexity and aspiration which greatly 
helps to resolve the perplexities and purify and 
intensify the aspirations. The reader will find the 
better mind of modern life beautifully and help- 
fully expressed, notably in such poems as "The 
Higher Purpose," "Gratitude," and "The Worship 
of Work." 

The poems of war are altogether sane. They 
are uncompromising in condemnation of war, yet 
charged with patriotic spirit and loyal support of 
this war. As a method, war is unqualifiedly con- 
demned ; as a necessity, thrust upon free and liberty- 
loving peoples, it is held a sacred'duty. 

Lovers of the true and beautiful in verse will 
welcome this collection of poems from one who 
has caught the rhythm of life and has the gift of 
expression. S. A. Lough. 



13 



AUTHOR'S NOTE. 



/ make no apology for publish- 
ing this, my fourth, volume of 
verse. I love life, its joys, oppor- 
tunities, privileges and satisfac- 
tions, and am glad I am so in tune 
with these things as to present 
them as they appeal to me. It is 
my sincere hope that this little 
book will give as much pleasure 
to those who read it as to the 
one who wrote it. 



15 



Near life's quiet byways, 
Near its thronging highways, 
Gathered were these flowers, 
In impelling hours, 
Bunched here in a common vase, 
By a hand devoid of grace. 

Fingers rude may soil them, 
Winds of time may spoil them, 
Make them fall and wither, 
Scatter every whither; 
Yet may fragrance they impart 
Linger in the reader's heart. 



17 



MAN IN THE MAKING. 

A blade of grass, a shrub, a tree, 
As gloomily millenniums passed, 

Then grew in emerald majesty, 
O'er continents the forests vast; 

But how much longer is the span 

From dust to stature of a man. 

An infusoria, a germ, 

A mollusk, an invertebrate, 

An Ichthyosaurus, pachyderm, 
An ape, then man in nomad state, 

What evolutions mark the page 

Of history from stage to stage. 

A handful of our common earth 
Was vitalized by heaven's breath; 

A soul received celestial birth, 
Within a body marked for death, 

Unless thru eras long of strife 

It won the crown eternal life. 

Age after age has come and gone, 
In silence since that natal day, 

And yet no traces of the dawn 
Do eastern skies to us betray, 

When man made perfect we behold 

The master of the age of gold. 

His eye dimmed by the mists of sin, 
Hath seen thru all the centuries, 

Yet not discerned, the charm within 
The heart of flowers, that deifies 

The beauty and sublimity 

Of cloud and dewdrop, rill and sea. 
19 



The symphonies of coming day, 

That make the hills and woods rejoice, 
The thrush's heart-enrapturing lay, 

Are only tumult, only noise. 
Birds never trill a song for him — 
He hears no voice of seraphim. 

He looks upon the evening skies, 
As one who wanders in a dream, 

And sees no gold or crimson dyes, 
Where splendors glow in every beam. 

He does not hear, or see, or feel 

The wonders nature can reveal. 

He requisitions all the earth, 
And harnesses her secret powers, 

Explores all life, its source, its worth, 
From distant suns to lowly flowers; 

Compels the wave, and rules the air, 

Yet fails in faith and love and prayer. 

He hears the moanings of distress, 
That rise from hovels of the poor, 

The howlings of the wolves that press 
Against misfortune's creaking door, 

And yet, and yet his ears are dumb 

To cry of Lazarus for a crumb. 

Can no Ithuriel be found, 

Who can descend and search the earth, 
And circumscribe the meet and bound, 

Tell where the broods of crime have birth, 
Destroy the vampire and the beast, 
That greedily on mortals feast? 

These are the demons never seen. 

By eye of man who nullify 
The motive pure, the purpose clean, 

Then reinstate their progeny, 

20 



And leave the garnished temple more 
Depraved and filthy than before. 

When will man's vision penetrate 
Thru Error's variegated dress, 

And recognize Truth's low estate 
Of penury and bitterness, 

See Hate forever on a throne, 

And Love rejected by its own? 

When will he cross the "color line," 
And overcome the crimes of caste, 

No longer bow before a shrine, 
Erected in the ages past, 

Accept the solidarity 

Of men and races, bond and free? 

War is a hell in whose fierce fires 
Each struggling virtue of the soul, 

And every spark of faith expires, 
As leaping flames of anger roll ; 

Tho widow's tears the whole world drench 

Its crater blaze it could not quench. 

A force there is unseen, divine, 
That overrules the selfish schemes 

Of men and states drunk with the wine 
Of empire's fascinating dreams, 

And turns oppressive tyrannies 

To world-wide triumphs in disguise. 

The torch of liberty is lit 

By hand of prophet from the fires, 
Beneath the martyr saints who sit 

On thrones misnamed funereal pyres; 
And now the flames resistless leap 
To all lands in its onward sweep. 

Hence conflicts have their brighter side; 
'Tis then heroic souls are born, 
21 



Whose wisdom ships of state can guide 

O'er seas by storms of evil torn, 
The flowers of freedom sooner bud 
On soil enriched by human blood. 

It is no empty prophecy, 

Nor vain the angel song of peace, 
The Right shall rule from sea to sea, 

And every human tumult cease; 
The ocean wide and narrow rill 
Shall hear the Master say, Be Still. 

Deep in the subsoil of the soul 
Are sown divine and earthly seeds; 

In some rich harvests are the toll, 
In others only worthless weeds. 

At length in all the world's domain 

Shall flourish only heavenly grain. 

Then shall the wilderness forlorn 
Rejoice and blossom as the rose, 

And give its fruitage, wine and corn, 
And every blessing heaven bestows, 

And sands of deserts turn to gold, 

That yield to man an hundred fold. 

And then will man a neighbor be, 
A brother to his fellow man, 

From every imperfection free, 
And no more under bane or ban ; 

His ultimate and only creed, 

A godly walk and kindly deed. 

And he will learn to stand in awe 

Of Him who reigns by grace, not force, 

Thru powers of life and love and law, 
In star or planet in its course, 

In every creature that hath breath, 

From infant's cry to sleep of death. 
22 



And that the greatest of them all, 

The secret of the universe, 
As men and nations rise and fall, 

Is Love that antedates the curse, 
Which shall, in coming ages, win 
The human race, the world, from sin. 

This is the Power, known, yet unknown, 
That makes for righteousness and faith, 

And works till wrong is overthrown, 

And rules the earth, but not with wrath, 

Who shall in centuries to be, 

From every guilt make mankind free. 

Within a Father's loving breast, 
The fires of hope intensely burn, 

And will until a soul-unrest 

Shall cause the prodigal's return; 

The four-square city's every gate, 

Calls him with voice importunate. 

The Christ shall never cease to be 
The tender Shepherd of the fold, 

Who seeks until the shadows flee, 

The sheep that stray on mountains cold, 

Who will not give his eyes to sleep, 

Until he finds his last, lost sheep. 

As a refiner he will wait 

Beside the furnace of his love, 
Until the dross shall separate, 

And his own image comes to prove 
The finished testing of the ore 
That once the heavenly imprint bore. 

A thousand years are as one day, 

With Him who fills unmeasured space, 

And growth, the debtor of decay, 
In realms of nature and of grace; 

23 



Tis one eternal Now with Him, 
Who man creates, or cherubim. 

As harts thirst for the waterbrook 
As rising tides set toward the shore, 

As eyes for help to mountains look, 
As eagles toward the empyreal soar, 

So heavenward shall be the quest — 

In God all live and move and rest. 

And in the day of light and song, 
In Rock of Ages man shall hide, 

To choirs invisible belong, 
And in the Infinite abide; 

And he shall know as he is known, 

With Christ the Savior on the throne. 

No more shall hatred draw the sword, 

Guns echo and re-echo greed, 
Or men their millions hold and hoard, 

When poverty and hunger plead; 
For love shall govern home and mart, 
And good-will dwell in every heart. 

As silently as yonder stars, 
The Lord of life and mercy waits, 

Till man shall break his prison bars, 
And pass the opening iron gates, 

To lands untouched by spear or rod, 

Where all are 'neath the smile of God. 

NEW HOPE. 

Night's crown of stars grows dim, 
The purpling morning breaks; 

The bird on bending limb 
A song of welcome wakes; 

With new born Hope arouse, arise, 

And hail the beauteous earth and skies. 
24 



POESY. 

What is a poem? I do not know. 
It takes a thought, and dresses it 
With the habiliments that charm 
The fancy and the visual sense, 
So that it warms anew the heart, 
And fills it with sweet dreams of hope, 
And studs the midnight sky with stars. 

'Tis like the spirit of a man; 
We see it not, and yet we know 
It thrills and moves and reigns within. 
We see its splendor in the eye, 
And hear its music in the voice; 
We note its majesty and power 
In the upright and god-like walk 
And bearing of nobility. 

And thus it is with poesy. 

There are within the well-wrought lines 

The tint and fragrance of the flower, 

The ripple of the unseen rill, 

The gleam and warmth of southern skies 

The distant echoes of the sea, 

The note of heaven's harmony. 

It satisfies the longing heart, 
Like waters from a living spring 
Whose source is far removed, and lies 
Deep in the everlasting hills. 

MUSIC. 

When Discord broke the silence deep 

That held the new-flung world gone wrong, 

Music awakened from her sleep, 
And gave to stars the gift of song. 

25 



She came obedient to the call 

Of hearts moved by divine desire, 

On wings that breathed a madrigal, 
On feet shod with poetic fire. 

The tinge of clouds is in her hair, 
That sides of evening glorify; 

Her coronet a beryl fair, 

The rainbow mists her livery. 

The passion of the summer rains 

Is in the azure of her eyes; 
The blood of roses fills her veins, 

That pulse with heavenly rhapsodies. 

Her whisper is a symphony 

That softly steals upon the breeze, 

Like winds that intone melody 
With every wave upon the seas. 

A nightingale sings in her breast, 
In measured cadence sweet and low, 

A lullaby that soothes to rest 

The souls of mortals rent with woe. 

The unseen currents in the trees, 

Beneath their garb of brown and gray, 

Murmur angelic harmonies 
Too delicate for ears of clay. 

Her voice is heard in fields of corn, 

In cataract and river's flow; 
In carols of the birds of morn, 

In gentle falling of the snow. 

The floods of ocean clap their hands, 
Responsive to the joyful hills, 

While minor chords float o'er the lands, 
In waves seraphic from the rills. 

26 



She croons in every mother heart,, 

As baby nestles in her arms, 
And fills the home nest, by her art, 

With every sound that cheers and charms. 

She thrills the maid with notes of love, 
From dewy morn to evening star; 

She nerves battalions as they move, 
With stalwart tread, to bloody war. 

In holy temples is her throne, 
And here her votaries humbly kneel; 

Here she as goddess reigns alone, 
Thru human voice and organ peal. 

O'er nations may she spread her wings, 
Till all discordant strains shall cease, 

And every heart awakes and sings 
Victorious songs of love and peace. 

THE POET. 

The mocking bird sings not because 
We listen to his midnight song; 
His heart obeys the higher laws 
That never govern mortal tongue, 
He warbles forth his melody, 
And reckons not of fame or fee. 

Nor does the rose perfume the air, 
Because we love to linger near, 
And drink its odors rich and rare. 
Instinct with messages of cheer, 
It blooms along our dreary ways, 
Without a thought of pride or praise. 

The moon casts down the silvery beams, 
In sparkling beauty round our feet, 
And never for a moment dreams, 

27 



When keeping tryst the lovers meet, 
That thanks will mingle with the vows, 
For crowns of diamonds on their brows. 

There stands the monarch of the wood 
Caressed and kissed by bending sky; 
No fear in its majestic mood 
Of lightning stroke or tempest's cry. 
Nor does it strive to thrill or charm 
Those resting neath the sheltering arm. 

The mountain rears its hoary head, 
And hurling back the shafts of light, 
Seeks not to fill with awe and dread 
The souls of those still wrapped in night. 
Its hidden springs are only known 
To Him who sits on Nature's throne. 

Likewise the poet mounts on wings, 

Invisible to common eyes, 

And for his own sake soars and sings 

Lured not by paltry praise or prize. 

If heeding not the call of fame, 

His heart burns with the mystic flame. 

WHAT IS A BOOK? 

It is the chime of distant bells, 
The echo of a treasured song; 

The note of bugle that foretells 
Of war against an ancient wrong. 

It is the odor of the hills, 
The music of the wind-swept trees; 

The wrangling of the stately mills, 
The raging of contending seas. 

It is the fragrance of a flower, 

The rippling of a mountain stream; 

28 



The lion's mane of conscious power, 
The terror of an eagle's scream. 

It is sweet childhood's winsome smile, 
The tenderness of mother love; 

The storm that wastes a sea-girt isle, 
The seismic shock that mountains move. 

It is the breath of fern and field, 
The tang of hyssop and of pine; 

The din of buckler, sword and shield, 
With nations drawn in battle line. 

It is the whisper of a rhyme, 
The beauty of a saintly face; 

Life's fever, tragedy and crime, 
The wailing of a passing race. 

It is the blush of morning's sky, 
The crimson of the day's decline; 

The contrite spirit's piercing cry, 
In ashes bowed at Mercy's shrine. 

It is the fire from altars pure, 

That touches lips with speech and song; 
A voice that hath the power to lure 

To rack and cross the martyr throng. 

It is the note that lifts the soul 
To heaven's harmony and hight; 

A star that leads men to the goal — 

The Kingdom fair of Love and Light. 

THE UNSEEN. 

There are forces all about us, 
Deep within us and without us, 

Far more potent than the seen ; 
Thoughts if pure are things that make us, 
Angels of our lives that take us 

To a throne as king or queen. 
29 



LET US FORGET. 

Thou Maker of the heavens and earth. 

Thou Master of the universe, 
Whose Spirit gave creation birth, 

Whose hand stayed not creation's curse, 
Tho scarlet sins our souls beset, 
Let us forget — let us forget. 

Hast thou not said thru prophets old. 

In the plain speech of holy lore, 
That tho our sins be manifold, 

Thou wouldst remember them no more? 
Why spend our days in vain regret? 
Let us forget — let us forget. 

As far as east is from the west, 

Our sore iniquities shall fly 

From every penitential breast, 

Or hid in ocean's depths, shall lie. 
At Golgotha was paid the debt; 
Let us forget — let us forget. 

The flowers that bud and bloom again 

O'er devastated hill and wold, 
Forgetful of the hurricane, 

Star-gem the plains with blue and gold : 
O'er sin-scarred hearts why should we fret ? 
Let us forget — let us forget. 

The Love that holds the farthest star, 
That reaches Sheol's utmost bend, 

That neither Time nor Chance can bar, 
Nor mind of Seraph comprehend, 

Until earth's latest sun shall set, 

A ransomed soul cannot forget. 

RECOGNITION. 

He turned the sod, plowed deep the soil; 
His plowshare left its trace 

30 



To thousands of his race, 
As evidence of honest toil. 

He bravely waged the fight of life; 
A scabbard on the field 
Gave proof he did not yield 

To any foeman in the strife. 

Thru forests dense he blazed the way 

For multitudes unborn; 

His axe he left, all worn, 
Unhelved, half hidden in the clay. 

He builded cities on the plain; 

His handiwork remains 

In palaces and fanes, 
On highways of the foaming main. 

He planted fruit and forest tree, 

Not for himself alone, 

But after years had flown, 
For generations yet to be. 

Denied the scholar's gift and goal, 

He laid foundations wide 

And deep that still abide, 
For building temples of the soul. 

Feet to the lame, eyes to the blind — 

His benefactions fell 

On mansion, hut and cell, 
And children's children bless his kind. 

He wrote no book, he made no speech ; 

A life of noble deeds 

Speaks louder far than creeds, 
And touches mankind's utmost reach. 

Why should we ask or seek his name, 

When on the scrolls above, 

'Tis writ in words of love, 
That burn with cloven tongues of flame. 

31 



THE OPEN EAR. 

The red, red rose will speak to those 

Who have an ear to hear, 
And if the heart its language knows, 

Its meaning will be clear. 

Hast thou not heard in song of bird 

The voice of seraphim? 
By it is not the spirit stirred, 

As by an Eden hymn? 

The stars above in orbits move, 

Blazed by a hand divine, 
And in their light proclaim a love 

That's wholly thine and mine. 

On evening's breeze the waving trees 

Breathe messages of cheer, 
And all our sorrows will appease, 

If we could only hear. 

Have you not held, with rivers eld, 
Communion sweet and low, 

Till to an anthem it has swelled, 
In rhythmic overflow? 

The winds that seek to kiss your cheek, 

Have secrets of their own ; 
In whispers to your heart they speak, 

When once you learn the tone. 

The singing grass, how few, alas! 

Its music can discern; 
If we could catch it as we pass, 

Our souls with joy would burn. 

'Neath snowy drift the mountains lift 

Their voices to the skies; 
May heaven grant to us the gift 

To hear its glad replies. 
32 



DEAR BOOKS, SING TO ME. 

When vanities of time and sense, 
A-glitter with their vain pretense, 

Absorb my dull and drooping powers, 
Dear books, 
From idle shelves come hence, 

And sing to me of flowers. 

When thoughts invade of dark despair, 
Like motes and insects in the air, 

Surrounding me in buzzing herds, 
Dear books, 
Come from your cosy lair, 

And sing to me of birds. 

When loneliness my heart doth shade, 
And spectres in long cavalcade 

Their evil-boding presence lends, 
Dear books, 
'Tis then I need your aid; 

Come, sing to me of friends. 

When sorrow on my spirit falls, 
And deep to deep despondent calls, 

As moan the sea waves on the bars, 
Dear books, 
Come from your hedging walls, 

And sing to me of stars. 

When dear ones give their last caress, 
And fingers cold my heart strings press, 

And from this clay-house I am driven, 
Dear books, 
Writ for the soul's distress, 

Come, sing to me of heaven. 

TRIUMPH IN DEFEAT. 

If circumstances all conspire 
To bring you discontent, 
33 



And quench in you celestial fire, 
Then change environment. 

If penury, by storm or stealth, 
Should meet you with its dole, 

Accept it, make it bring you wealth, 
Enrichment in your soul. 

If you have lost that priceless crown, 

The jewel of a name, 
Redeem yourself by reaching down, 

Another to reclaim. 

If sorrow long has bowed your head, 

Because of some sore wrong, 
The tears of penitence you shed 

Will ripple into song. 

If you have lost the heavenly gift, 

From sin would be absolved, 
You must yourself perform the shrift— 

The work must be evolved. 

If rootlets of a tree can burst 

The rocks that bar a stream, 
What can allay your spirit's thirst, 

Or thwart your brightest dream? 

If you have life, inspired by love, 

Abundant and divine, 
There's naught your purposes can move, 

Or powers undermine. 

Your loaves and fish do not retain 

That hunger may allay; 
And of the fragments that remain 

Twelve baskets bear away. 

You may be lame and halt and blind, 

The sport of petty kings; 
But pure in heart and clear in mind, 

Some day you will have wings. 
34 



UNTRAMMELED. 

What matters where a man is born, 

Or where he dwells, 
If he shall greet with joy the morn, 

And sing with evening bells. 

He cannot as a slave be bound, 

With golden chain; 
He dares the hights and depths profound, 

In land or sky or main. 

No pent-up Utica can hold 

His winged feet; 
They speed aloft, and uncontrolled, 

Where stellar highways meet. 

He hears the music of the surge 

Of distant sea, 
And longs to answer every urge 

Of mountain, stream and tree. 

He visions no horizon, with 

Its meet and bound; 
The world can not deny a tithe 

Of sovereignty profound. 

The soul is ever in its youth, 

With eye intent, 
To pierce the secrets life and truth, 

In earth and firmament. 

Delineated on his face, 

In scores of light, 
Are melodies of heavenly grace, 

That chase away the night. 

The life is peaceful as a stream, 

That ripples rhyme, 
With fairy boats, as in a dream, 

That seek a port sublime. 
35 



With hidden wings he scales the skies, 

Transcending Mars, 
And gathers, while unseen, he flies, 

The diamond dust of stars. 

JOY. 

Tis not a sentimental smile, 

That smacks of insincerity, 
Nor merry-makings that beguile 

The heart with transitory glee. 

It is not happiness that comes 

From words of praise meant to cajole; 
These are but dainty sweetened crumbs, 

That touch the palate of the soul. 

'Tis not in pleasures of the sense, 
So unsubstantial, vain and fleet, 

However clothed in innocence, 
Or clean of motives indiscreet. 

'Tis not in gay hilarities, 

Like bits of sunshine thru the cloud, 
That gladden drooping, tear-dimmed eyes 

When sorrow our whole being shroud. 

It is the calmness of repose, 
The recompense of duty done; 

The fragrance nestling in the rose, 
That blesses all and injures none. 

'Tis exultation of the soul, 

In Love's own harmony and hight, 
That revels in divine control, 

Abiding in celestial light. 

It gladness finds in yonder star, 
In daisy, springing from the sod; 

In nature's glories, near and far, 

With throne-seat in the heart of God. 

36 



THE MAN WHO WALKS ALONE. 
A thousand eager, restless, anxious feet 

Pass by him on the street; 
His thoughts ascend above their thoughts, as far 

As yonder violet star; 
He views a different world, another zone, 

And therefore walks alone. 
The multitude sees only things of time, 

Its folly, pleasure, crime; 
Their gaze is often listless, often cold; 

Its object chiefly gold; 
His vision goes beyond the seen, the known, 

He therefore walks alone. 
To some the noisy mill and factory wheel 

Make strong appeal; 
To others only products of the still, 

Their tastes fulfill; 
While he discerns the soul's deep undertone, 

And therefore walks alone. 
The mass of men bemoan their low estate, 

And temporize with hate, 
Which hangs a sword of Damocles, and yet 

They willingly forget. 
Adversity has blessings all its own, 

Says he who walks alone. 
How widening and downward is the way 

That leads the host astray, 
That snares the wayward feet of man and child, 

By siren's voice beguiled; 
While straight the path that leadeth to a throne, 

Which he must walk alone. 
A man, a superhuman man, was born, 

As others, yet forlorn 
Above all others, and from days of youth 

He lived and spoke the truth; 
And with a wisdom to the world unknown, 

He walked thru life alone. 
37 



NOTHING LOST. 
In God's eternal universe, 

From earthly rill to jasper seas, 
There is no loss, there is no curse, 

From microlite to Pleiades; 
Thru all there runs, in endless range, 
A continuity of change. 
A monad in a poet's brain, 

Beneath the spirit's subtle power, 
Evolves today a lofty strain, 

Returns tomorrow in a flower; 
In each it ministers to those 
Elate with joys, depressed with woes. 
A multitude in senseless rage 

Burned an evangel in his youth, 
Yet who shall say, on printed page, 

He does not still proclaim the truth, 
Tho it may be a far, far cry 
From human clay to factory. 
A molecule of mortal dust, 

That gleamed upon a sage's brow, 
Is carried by a sudden gust, 

To where the forest monarchs grow, 
And ages afterward appears 
Where Love a stately mansion rears. 
A singer drank ambrosial wine, 

And sang of love divinely true; 
A warbler's corse the earth benign, 

Gave resting place where vintage grew; 
Who knows but atoms in the throat 
Of songster trilled the maiden's note. 
Is atom, molecule or dust, 

In mankind, animal or clod, 
Above the soul, just or unjust, 

Made in the image of its God? 
Which has the higher place or goal, 
A monad or a human soul ? 
38 



THE SOIL AND THE SEED. 

"Good Master, how about the seed, 

The sower and the ground," 
Said Thomas, who now felt the need 

Of wisdom more profound. 

"The good seed is the word of life," 

The Master made reply; 
"The soil the souls of men in strife, 

The sowers you and I." 

"I know, my Master, what is meant 

By sower and the seed, 
But who are those who represent 

The path, the stone, the weed?" 

"Who made the wayside soul ill-born, 
Who made the heart of stone, 

Who made the ground beset by thorn — 
Who could but God alone?" 

The Master looked with thoughtful brow 

Into the Doubter's eyes, 
And said, "Enough for you to know, 

That God is good and wise. 

"He knows the feeble frame of man, 

That he is formed of dust; 
Do not his mercy blindly scan; 

Remember he is just. 

"Has He not given you the pledge — 

His own eternal word, 
To change the land of thorn and ledge 

To gardens of the Lord? 

"The deserts shall rejoice and bloom, 
With fruit and flower and vine, 

And where the brambles cast their gloom 
Shall flow the oil and wine. 

39 



"He is the first, He is the last; 

Sin is a thing of time; 
Before the fatal die was cast, 

He saw the end of crime. 

"His love sustains the universe — 

Our little earth as well ; 
Ours is the world beneath the curse — 

Beneath the siren spell. 

"This is the solitary sheep, 

That wandered far away; 
The Shepherd will not rest or sleep, 

Until He finds the stray. 

"This is the one lost prodigal, 
Who eats the husks with swine, 

Whose Father grieves when shadows fall, 
And stars refuse to shine. 

"His heart of love will ever yearn, 
And wait, with robe and ring, 

Until the last, lost son return, 
And angels shout and sing." 

THE UNSPOKEN REBUKE. 

Bare and desolate the ground 
Above the form we cherished ; 

'Neath that little tear-dewed mound 
Our sweetest hopes all perished. 

Months crept by, the hand of God 

Caressingly and tender, 
Changed the brown and barren sod 

To spring-time's emerald splendor. 

Father, gently dost Thou chide 
Our hearts for sorely grieving; 

'Neath the daisies dost Thou hide 
Rebuke for unbelieving. 

40 



BY THE SEA. 

Inscribed to Mr. and Mrs. Jacob L. Loose of 
Kansas City, Mo. 

We see the morning sun arise, 

In splendor o'er the deep, 
And tint with beauty all the skies, 

Where clouds in silence sweep, 
While we sit in reverie, 
In our mansion by the sea. 

We hear the curlew's restless cry, 

As on a tireless wing, 
It tells in mournful prophecy 

Of what a day may bring; 
Yet from dangers we feel free, 
In our mansion by the sea. 

The argosies, with snowy sails, 

Glide o'er the sun-lit wave, 
Serenely wafted by the gales 

Too gentle far to rave, 
Playing hide and seek in glee 
Near our mansion by the sea. 

But hark, did ye not hear that sound, 

That distant, ominous roar, 
The tidal waves that wildly bound, 

Along the rocky shore? 
Storm kings now have jubilee, 
Near our mansion by the sea. 

The clouds of darkness sweep the deep, 

And torrents flood the coast; 
And these the thoughts that murder sleep, 

That thousands may be lost; 
Thus we feel the tragedy, 
In our mansion by the sea. 

We seem to hear the mother's wail, 
The children's mournful cries, 

41 



As they appeal without avail, 
To wrathful, warring skies. 
Would these souls to us could flee, 
In our mansion by the sea. 

The morning breaks, along the shore, 
The waves now sink to rest, 

Tranquility abides once more, 
In many a troubled breast. 

Gratitude now bends the knee, 

In our mansion by the sea. 

We sit and rest, and watch and wait, 
And see the tall ships go, 

With all their precious human freight 
So swiftly to and fro. 

With no thought of you and me, 

In our mansion by the sea. 

And is this all there is below, 
As ships that pass at night, 

A brief salute, then on they go 
To seek the ports of light? 

Life means more to you and me, 

In our mansion by the sea. 

It means sweet sunshine for all souls, 
And bread for bodies, too, 

A hand that points to higher goals, 
With hearts sincere and true; 

Helpers may we grow to be 

In our mansion by the sea. 

THE SOUL OF HONOR. 

What is the thing that counts in life, 
As heaven-born honor in the strife? 

Is it the splendor of a name, 

High written on the scroll of fame? 

42 



Compassion toward the lowly shown, 
With friendly tongues to make it known? 

A deed of daring in the sight 

Of thousands shouting their delight? 

A victory for country gained, 

Thru methods by corruption stained? 

A gift to some great enterprise, 
That looms up big in human eyes? 

A large donation to the poor, 
When wide publicity is sure? 

The founding of a guild or school, 
That fosters mercenary rule? 

Perhaps, perhaps, I cannot say, 
'Tis hard the secret to portray. 

An action that incarnates self 
Is barred, as truly as for pelf. 

A fear of censure is as wrong 
As panegyric sought in song. 

If your objective point is fame, 
Your work, however good, is tame. 

The glory of your act is lost, 
If telling savors of a boast. 

The envious spirit has no place 
In him who covets honor's grace. 

And he will never finger lift 
Against the man with larger gift. 

Recording angels those souls own, 
Who blush to have their good deeds known. 
43 



THE LINOTYPE. 
It is not fashioned after man, 

With flesh and blood, and hones and lungs, 
Yet somewhat on the human plan, 

Since furnished with a thousand tongues, 
To tell the tales from near and far, 
Of love and hate, of peace and war. 
The operator's skillful hand 

Transforms the metal, page on page, 
To words poetic, simple, grand, 

As orator upon the stage, 
That to the world the nows proclaim, 
From Vera Cruz to Notre Dame. 
The iron wheels go round and round, 

With rhythmic motion, day by day; 
The elevator's sure rebound, 

The finger's back and forward play, 
The matrices as firmly clasp, 
As with a human grip and grasp. 
It has a thousand sleepless eyes, 

It has a thousand listening ears; 
The world beholds till daylight dies, 

Its voices hears till morn appears, 
And touches with it silent speech 
Humanity's unmeasured reach. 
Oh Linotype, instinct with life, 

What marvelous things hast thou begun; 
Thy melting pot shall end the strife, 

And fuse the nations into one, 
Bind land to land, and sea to sea, 
In one immortal destiny. 
Oh Mergenthaler, honored name, 

You builded wiser than you knew; 
Undying as the stars your fame, 

Among the men to mankind true; 
Insipred of God in heart and soul, 
Wast thou, to reach this crowning goal. 
44 



THE CULPRIT. 

Who placed on me the ball and chain, 

Till I am old and gray? 
Who marked me with the brand of Cain, 

Forever and a day? 

'Twas not the law, 'twas not the court, 
Nor judge tho just and wise. 

May I not be the football sport 
Of untold centuries? 

If parents can transmit the good, 

Why not the bad as well? 
Is there a dormant taint in blood 

That dooms the soul to hell? 

'Tis said that Adam ate the fruit, 

Designed to make one wise; 
And wise he grew, without dispute, 

With newly opened eyes. 

Tho Adam walked in innocence, 

It was his fate to fail ; 
How can I wanting his defense, 

In fiercer strifes prevail? 

He had his tempter from without, 

Nor this did he foreknow ; 
Environment was no redoubt 

Against such wily foe. 

Is it not pertinent to ask, 

Who made the great arch-fiend, 

And how he learned to wear the mask — 
In Eden be demesned? 

Back of all ancestry*remote, 

Back of the Serpent's ire, 
Who made the first discordant note, 

In all the angel choir? 

45 



Is there an endless chain of sin, 

In aeons of the past? 
If not when did the forge begin, 

And what link is the last? 

And am I just a little link, 

Untempered in the fire, 
That would not hold when on the brink 

Of gorges of desire? 

Who gave such splendor to the morn, 

Such glory to the day, 
All to be lost in night forlorn, 

Without one star's faint ray? 

The birds and honeysuckles blend 

Their charms on summer air, 
Yet when the northern winds descend 

They leave us in despair. 

Who made that queen of flowers, the rose, 

Love's visions to impart, 
And ere its beauty fully blows, 

A worm to eat its heart? 

A tree would never cease to grow, 

The long, long ages thru; 
Yet fades its leaf, as foe on foe 

Their ravages renew. 

Among the billion stars that burn, 

On heaven's azure floor, 
Why should a few to blackness turn, 

Go out forevermore? 

Why should the songs of morn sublime, 

Back in the dim, dim past, 
In honor of the birth of Time, 

Die out upon the blast? 
46 



Who fashioned spirits near of kin 

To seraphim on high, 
Eternal life to lose or win, 

By casting of a die? 

O Solitude, Infinitude, 

Is there no voice, no sound, 

To testify to any good 

In night or depth profound? 

THE DREAMS OF YOUTH. 

Oh, Time, whatever thou dost steal 

Of things that make man's high estate, 

The instinct fine, the conscience leal 
To sympathies inviolate, 

By all the sanctity of truth, 

Take not away the dreams of youth. 

Despoil me of my outer sight, 

And rob me of the power to hear, 

But spare to me the inner light, 
And unimpaired the inner ear; 

Leave me the melody of truth, 

The beauty of the dreams of youth. 

The cunning of my hand destroy, 
Let limb and lobe grow impotent; 

Let dullness all my senses cloy, 
My spirit still will be content, 

If in me is the soul of truth, 

The rapture of the dreams of youth. 

Relentless Time, let winter's frost, 
With every season tinge my hair, 

And with the aging years be lost 

What comeliness my frame may bear, 

Still let my joy be in die truth, 

My ecstasy the dreams of youth. 
47 



LIFE'S INCOMPLETENESS. 

Life is a beam of flickering light, 
That dimly shines in nature's night. 

A spark that from God's anvil flies, 
A moment flames, then falls and dies. 

A fragment of a shattered vase; 
A column broken near its base. 

The segment of an architrave; 
A bubble on the ocean wave. 

A breath divine from heavenly hills, 
That soon is lost o'er plains or rills. 

A, tree upon the mount of God, 

That blights, and mingles with the sod. 

* * # * 

We build up homes that death will break; 
Give love to those who soon forsake. 

We lean for help upon a reed, 
That fails us in our sorest need. 

When memory weaves a golden chain, 
Some chafing link gives inward pain. 

Ambition sees afar the goal, 
But wings are lacking to the soul. 

When fancy seeks celestial realms, 
A sudden weakness overwhelms. 

* *' * * 

The temple fair will only stand, 
Resplendent, in the better land. 

Where roses bloom without a thorn, 
And flies the night before the morn. 

Where gleams Faith's star in every sky, 
And Love can never fail or die. 

48 



EFFECT AND CAUSE. 

"We are punished by our sins, not for them." 
—Elbert Hubbard. 

The sun is but a battery, 

That with electric heat and power, 
Brings life to earth and air and sea, 

And tints with beauty cloud and flower. 

With flint and tow we build a fire, 
And feel its glow upon the hearth; 

It ministers to man's desire; 

Gives untold weal in all the earth. 

And yet the sun the eye will blind. 
And kill the body with its light, 

And ash heaps fire will leave behind, 
When cities come beneath its might. 

Love is a fire of hope and trust, 

That frees and purifies the soul, 
But atrophies and turns to lust, 

When spirit forces lose control. 

Zeal is the servitor of Faith, 

That builds the home, the church, the state; 
But given sway, as righteous wrath, 

By slow degrees grows into hate. 

Ambition is a thirst within 

For waters from the living springs, 

But turned, debased, becomes akin 

To pride, the burning plague of kings. 

The pride of life, lust of the eye, 
And hate, the cancer of the heart 

From these we harvest, by and by, 
The piercing pain, the poisoned dart. 

All laws of nature are of God, 
Are given for the good of man ; 

49 



Not one is an avenging rod, 

To bring him under heaven's ban. 

We spurn and violate these laws — 
The price and penalty we pay; 

Know this — effect will follow cause, 
As certainly as night the day. 

INERTIA. 

A loitering derelict I am, 

On waters fathomless and wide, 

Where day and night there lies a calm 
Unruffled by the wind or tide. 

The moonbeams cling to ocean's crest, 
With fingers of caressing light, 

As nestling babe on mother's breast, 
With naught to hinder or affright. 

The stars seem overcome with sleep, 
Amid the charm of nature's spell, 

And carelessly their vigils keep, 
Like battle-wearied sentinel. 

Be I a ship, or be I soul, 

Lie not thus quiet on the deep ; 

The world hath many a port and goal, 
And high rewards for thee to reap. 

Awake, ye South Breeze, come, ye West, 
And fill my listless, lifeless sail; 

Breathe puissance into my breast, 
Send inspiration in each gale. 

This apathy benumbs my brain, 
And fills me with untold alarm; 

Arouse me, wind, baptize me, rain, 
And drive me on high seas, oh, storm. 
50 



GRATITUDE. 

Two men had been enriched in store, 

Saved from despair; 
Both sought the Father to adore, 

In praise and prayer. 

One at the temple's holy shrine, 

On bended knee, 
Spoke words of thanks by rote and line, 

Unfeelingly. 

Ordained, he posed, as there he stood, 

Heaven's favorite, 
With speech to Giver of all good, 

Most erudite. 

When he had offered up his prayer, 

In stilted phrase, 
With heart unburdened of all care, 

He went his ways. 

The other sought the street where men 

And women meet, 
With kindliness of heart and ken 

The world to greet. 

The crying of a ragged boy 

Fell on his ears; 
He bought a new and nicer toy, 

And dried his tears. 

He put his shoulder 'neath the load 

A widow bore, 
And when he saw her mean abode, 

Increased her store. 

A man he rescued from the bane 

And curse of rum, 
And gave him courage to abstain, 

And overcome. 

51 



With gentle word, and wisdom rare, 

He warned a maid, 
And saved her from the fatal snare, 

By devils laid. 

Whenever on that day he saw 

A soul in need, 
His heart responded to the law 

Of noble deed. 

Which man deserved the higher place 

Among the good, 
And which exemplified the grace 

Of gratitude? 

LOOKING BACKWARD. 

Adown the hill I walk with lingering glance 

At scenes that lured me in life's vaunting prime- 
Lured to my loss. It seems a weakling's crime 

Against the soul and heaven, that time and chance 

Should pass as lightly as an elfin's dance, 
With opportunity no more to climb 
The rugged heights, and do a deed sublime, 

That would the weal and worth of men enhance. 

With clouded brow that never laurel knew, 
The spirit faint thru deepening unrest, 

On silvered locks and wearied feet the dew, 
Reproach and grief contending in the breast, 

I turn, with eyes tear-dimmed, from hills afar, 

Only to see Hope's slowly sinking star. 

A MARCH DAY. 

The sunshine struggles thru the clouds, 

And little warmth he brings; 
A winding sheet the earth enshrouds, 

Hiding remembered things; 
And yet I know the earth ere long 
Her tomb will rend with flower and song. 
52 



THE INFINITE PATIENCE. 

The eras come, the eras go, 

In cycles of the sun; 
And streams of universal woe, 

Like flood-tides onward run, 
Down to the sea where tempests rage 

Forevermore at will, 
And yet, and yet, age after age, 

God waits in patience still. 

The heart of man is turned to hate, 

And poison fills his breath, 
And wars, the nations devastate, 

With pillage, fire, and death. 
'Tis man against his brother man, 

Athirst to spoil and kill, 
Yet as these horrors He doth scan, 

God waits in patience still. 

The meek and lowly Nazarene, 

Who suffered in the flesh, 
Aggrieved in soul, and marred in mien, 

Is crucified, afresh. 
Tho as a lamb, he now is slain, 

Thru man's intolerant will, 
And faith is treated with disdain, 

God waits with patience still. 

A race of prodigals are we, 

In alien lands we rove, 
Regarding license liberty 

Lasciviousness as love. 
On empty husks of pelf and pride, 

Our starving souls we fill, 
But never with a word to chide, 

God waits in patience still. 

And eras yet may go and come, 
Till dawns the final day, 
53 



And man remains forever dumb 

To mercy's call and sway; 
And long and weary years of time 

Their missions may fulfill, 
With love eternal and sublime, 

God waits in patience still. 

THE LABYRINTH OF LIFE. 

Life is a labyrinth of devious ways; 
One into pitfalls trusting feet betrays; 
Another promises a tranquil goal, 
But on the rocks of turmoil strands the soul. 

We enter with our pennants flying high, 
With hearts elate, with glory in the eye; 
We follow what we deem a guiding star, 
That soon is lost in gathering mists afar. 

We hail the rising of the purple morn, 
With hopes and aspirations newly born, 
And enter avenues of heavenly light, 
That darken into lowly vales of night. 

We seek the inns of mirth from work released, 
In brief and quiet hours to rest and feast ; 
From banquetings upon ambrosial wine, 
We famish feeding on the husks with swine. 

"A pendulum betwixt a smile and tear," 
Vibrating thru each weary, lengthening year, 
A waif, a wanderer, a human jest, 
Fear turns to desperation thru unrest. 

We stand at last before the hills of God, 
Where angel feet have kissed the verdant sod; 
Our sorrows vanish and our doubtings cease, 
When we have climbed the Nebo hights of Peace. 

54 



LONGING. 

Would I could leave the haunts of men, 
And wander in the pathless wood, 

And breathe the air of perfumed glen, 
And drink the sweets of solitude, 

Feel the caressing touch of breeze, 

And catch the secrets it reveals, 
And hear the music of the trees, 

That on the soft air gently steals. 

There would I hold dear fellowship 

With grass and flower and stream and star, 

And from them all a nectar sip 
Sweet as the love of Lochinvar. 

In such communion rare as this, 

My spirit would be born anew, 
With longings for Edenic bliss, 

And aspirations for the true. 

The dew refreshing all the field, 

Would show me mercy's utmost reach, 

The lowly grass, unconscious, yield 
A note of courage to my speech. 

The towering tree on mountain side 

Would give me strength to face the wrong; 

The lark's clear carol, far and wide, 
Impart new cadence to my song. 

The fowl that on inerrant wing, 
Finds from the cold a safe retreat, 

To my distrustful heart would bring 
A faith that cannot know defeat. 

The stream that ever seeks the sea, 
Whose rhythmic motions never cease, 

A message would convey to me 
That tells the primacy of peace. 

55 



And gazing on the evening star, 

My soul would climb the aeure hight, 

Forever groveling things forswear, 
And free wings give to fancy's flight. 

But all such longings are in vain, 
My feet the ways of men tread still; 

The world's harsh discords — sin's refrain- 
My ears, unsympathetic, fill. 

WHY WORRY? 

Why worry? Seasons come and go, 

As for a million years; 
Their course you cannot overthrow, 

By prayers, or cries, or tears. 
The earth will not a second spare, 

In going round the sun, 
Nor vary in its path a hair, 

Until its race is run. 

Why worry? Heaven will send the rain, 

Without your beck or call, 
And over meadow, hill and plain, 

The drifting snows will fall. 
You may proclaim a solemn fast, 

Or issue your ukase, 
You cannot stop a single blast, 

One little cloud efface. 

Why worry? Stars have ordained times, 

And circuits of their own, 
And never cease their heavenly chimes, 

No matter how you groan; 
And meteors will blaze away, 

In their erratic course, 
Tho you vociferously bray 

Until your voice is hoarse. 

Why worry? Jaws will wiggle-wag, 
As in that early day, 

56 



When Adam first began to nag, 

Because Eve got too gay. 
As pure as seraph be your speech, 

Angelic be your song, 
You'll never get beyond the reach 

Of some two-forked tongue. 

Why worry? Just let others pine, 

And fill the air with moans, 
It is a sin to growl and whine; 

It dries the very bones. 
Remember, if you should get ill, 

The doctor's sunny smile 
Will beat his purgatorial pill 

A sixteen furlong mile. 

Why worry? Let the world pursue 

Its customary path; 
For men sincere, upright and true 

There is no day of wrath. 
Do not be tempted to despair, 

Be patient to endure, 
You shall have bread to eat and spare, 

Your waters shall be sure. 

"BEAUTY IS ONLY SKIN DEEP." 

Whence arose this ancient saying, 
Ignorance in man betraying 

Of a high and holy law; 
Beauty, in degree supernal, 
Is a thing divine, eternal, 

Tho displaying many a flaw. 

There may be a base obsession 
While the visible expression 

Is without a stain or scar; 
And a form devoid of beauty 
May possess a soul to duty 

True as magnet to its star. 
57 



Regal loveliness reposes 
In the petals of the roses 

That our finer senses win ; 
But the charm of any flower, 
Secret of its heart, is power 

Beauty to beget within. 

Crimson eve and purple morning, 
Nature's glory and adorning, 

Call us, thrall us, and inspire; 
But beyond their hues of splendor, 
Are their voices, low and tender, 

Kindling in us heaven's fire. 

Skies and clouds reveal God's glory, 
Earth repeats the wondrous story, 

In the mountain, sea and sod; 
Never till his Spirit fills us, 
And his love immortal thrills us 

Will we know the heart of God. 

THE DISTANT MOUNTAINS. 

The mountains are Gods thoughts writ large; 

In them behold His majesty — 

The work of His almighty hand. 

Approaching, thru the mist you see 

The cloud and snow-crowned range and peak, 

Your vision failing to discern 

Which part is land and which is cloud. 

'Tis thus with some majestic souls, 
Who like these everlasting hills, 
Lift up their heads above the earth. 
They seem to be earth-born, and yet 
How much is human and how much 
Divine, our eyes do not reveal. 
Their towering souls like mountain peaks 
That touch the clouds, take hold on God, 
Interpreting His will and ways 
To us poor lowly sons of men. 
58 



THE WORSHIP OF WORK. 

He worships best who labors best, 
With head and heart and hand; 

And he will find the sweetest rest, 
When on the golden strand. 

Religion is not waving palms, 

When men hosannas cry, 
Nor is it singing sacred psalms, 

In high-wrought ecstasy. 

Tis not repeating lengthy prayers, 
And making formal pleas, 

Or climbing Pilate's marble stairs, 
Upon your bended knees. 

'Tis not professing holy creeds, 

Subscribing to beliefs; 
Instead, it lives in noble deeds, 

That lessen human griefs. 

He who can make two roses grow, 
Where only one has grown, 

On man more bounty will bestow 
Than saints who seek a throne. 

The husbandman who brings the sod 
To yield a hundred fold, 

Is just as true a son of God 
As mitered priest of old. 

The men who delve in gloomy mine, 
And thereby bless the race, 

Have marks of royalty divine, 
In grimy hand and face. 

The lonely watchers on the ways, 
Where dangers lurk unseen, 

Tho voiceless, give untutored praise 
To Christ the Nazarene. 

59 



And they who labor in the mill, 

At factory or loom, 
Are doing heaven's righteous will, 

And banishing earth's gloom. 

The architect, the artisan, 

The toiler in the quay, 
Is ministering to God and man — 

To labor is to pray. 

AFTER MANY YEARS. 

I sang a song on a dreary day, 
To banish my heart's dull pain; 

A simple, familiar roundelay, 

As I trudged thro the chilling rain. 

A man with a downcast eye walked near, 

Who bore a heavier load; 
Without a wife or a child to cheer, 

Lone traveler upon life's road. 

The gladsome melody reached a soul, 

That had only tasted rue, 
And brushing away his tears of dole, 

His courage was born anew. 

I nothing knew of the lone man's need, 

Till after the flight of years, 
When with delight he recalled the deed, 

As a joy gleamed thru his tears. 

ETHEREAL SOULS. 

Souls there are ethereal, sweet, 
More for heaven than earth made meet; 
Clouds by wings of angels fanned, 
Never seen to touch the land; 
Floating tranquilly in air, 
For base mortals far too rare; 
Souls like these of heavenly birth 
Are unknown to men of earth. 
60 



POVERTY. 

'Tis not in lack of acres wide, 
Wherein the dust of gold doth hide; 
Nor lack of notes and bonds and stocks, 
In fire-proof vaults, behind time locks. 

'Tis not in squalid tenement, 
With empty purse, and unpaid rent; 
With walls besmirched and pictureless, 
And window rags of shiftlessness. 

Tis not the garb of penury, 
Exposing unwashed arm and knee; 
Nor brimless hat and heelless shoe, 
Or nether garments soiled and few. 

'Tis not in these, or want of these 
Lies Poverty. They are degrees, 
Conditions, stages of the man 
Under misfortune's bane and ban. 

That man is poor and poor indeed, 
Whose eye, filled with the demon Greed, 
Sees wealth in cattle on the wold, 
But not the sunset's richer gold. 

That man is poor who doth not hear 
The music of a boy's loud cheer : 
Whose soul with joy is never thrilled 
At laughing prattle of a child. 

That man is poor who sees no rift 

Of glory when the clouds uplift 

Their heads, sun-crowned, o'er plain and hill, 

Adding new charms to lake and rill. 

That man is poor and deaf and blind, 
Who hears no voices in the wind, 
And sees no splendor in the star 
Impearling dew-drops from afar. 
61 



*Tis poverty of soul — not purse, 
That is humanity's black curse; 
The Mammon of unrighteousness 
That bars the gates to Paradise. 

THE CHRYSALIS. 

A chrysalis hung pendant on a limb, 

And struggled to be free 
From uncouth walls that long imprisoned him 

In dark captivity. 

The impulse came the doors to help unbar 

That held it fold on fold; 
A voice held back my hand, and said beware — 

Spoil not the wings of gold. 

My sordid soul long languishingly lay 
On Doubt's hard prison floor; 

To friendly, helping hands my heart cried nay- 
Dare not unbolt the door. 

I must discover in myself the key, 

And resolutely bring, 
And thrust it in the lock, if I'd be free, 

And soar aloft and sing. 

REST. 

A little bird on the breath of morn 
With airy wings mounted up on high, 

And seemed to say in his song wide-borne 
I will make my home in the vaulted sky, 

In the weary flight he forgot his quest; 

At evening time in the trees sought rest. 

And like that bird our glad spirits soar 
To wondrous heights in the morn of life; 

And we think to dwell far above the roar 

Of earthly things, with their ills and strife, 

But we, too, find it a fruitless quest; 

On earth's sweet bosom we seek our rest. 
62 



TOMORROW. 
Tomorrow didst thou say, my friend? 

Tomorrow never comes; 
Procrastination wins no loaf, 

Perhaps not even crumbs; 
The fruitful tree go shake today; 

If thou wouldst get the plums. 
Tomorrow didst thou say, old pard? 

It is a fool's conceit, 
By which he seeks some irksome task 

To baffle or defeat, 
And does not dream that thus he may 

His very soul escheat. 
Tomorrow didst thou say, my boy? 

Repeat it not again. 
It is a jack o'lantern that 

May lead you to a fen, 
Where you will gain no honored place 

Among your fellow men. 
Tomorrow didst thou say, young man? 

It is a fateful word, 
And in the lexicon of youth 

It never should be heard ; 
By it the victor's song may be 

Eternally deferred. 
Tomorrow didst thou say, dear maid, 

And say it with a frown? 
Words may be trifles that forbid 

Fair womanhood her crown, 
And leave her buffeting the waves 

Upon life's sea to drown. 
Tomorrow didst thou say, old man, 

With wrinkles on thy brow? 
How canst thou fealty to Truth 

Delay to make thy vow? 
Upon the horologue of God 

'Tis one eternal Now. 

63 



THE THREE MOTHERS. 

Three mothers saw the tragedy, 

Outside the city wall ; 
They heard the wails of agony, 

And saw the hammers fall. 

One mother fainted as she cried : 

This is the dreaded dole, 
That Simeon saw who prophesied, 

A sword should pierce my soul. 

Would God that I could die for thee, 
strange, strange Son of mine; 

Why must thou perish on the tree, 
Possessed of power like thine? 

angel of the covenant, 

Who came to guide and warn, 

To thee I make my heart's last plaint- 
Why was the Christ-Child born? 

One robber pled, Lord, think of me, 
When thou in power shalt rise; 

He answered, With me thou shall be 
Today in paradise. 

With joy I drink my cup of grief, 

His weeping mother said; 
This son of mine became a thief, 

That he might give me bread. 

Another mother stands and hears 

The curses of her son, 
And 'mid her penitential tears 

Thus makes her bitter moan: 

Mine is the sin, and mine the shame, 
And mine the world's black scorn; 

And I alone must bear the blame — 
He was a robber born. 
64 



God, on me thy vengeance take, 

Let sorrows o'er me roll, 
Till I in fullest measure make 

Atonement for his soul. 

PAIN. 

Thou harbinger of broken law, 
True evidence of mortal guilt; 

Yet I forsooth, foreknew, foresaw, 
This enemy of human lilt; 

Why should I inwardly resent 

My just and righteous punishment? 

Along the sensitory nerve 

The message went with lightning speed, 
My highest vantage to conserve, 

And yet my spirit gave no heed; 
'Tis strange that I should be unwise 
To blessings sent me in disguise. 

'Tis written in the clouds that weep, 
And in the soil that drinks the rain, 

Just as you sow so shall you reap, 
And what you give comes back again. 

Give hate, and hatred will return; 

Give love, its flame will always burn. 

All law is made for human good; 

Ignore it, and you suffer loss; 
Your zeal, because misunderstood, 

Brings enmity, sometimes a cross; 
Peace, sweet and lasting, follows strife; 
Thru death comes more abundant life. 

"The thing that I expected," said 
Afflicted Job, "has happened me"; 

Why should you listen for the tread 
Of sorrows you may never see? 

Expect the best, from near and far, 

And follow Faith's triumphant star. 
65 



THE SECRET CALL. 

What is my gift, what is my goal, 

Is not for you to say; 
You cannot answer for my soul, 

Or show my feet the way. 

The lily knows it's time to bloom, 
The songster when to sing; 

In God's own time my winter's gloom 
Will change to radiant spring. 

Each star knows its appointed time, 
The sea its ebb and flow; 

And when I hear the call sublime, 
Its meaning I will know. 

I have no fear, I have no choice; 

I simply watch and wait; 
I'll gladly heed the still small voice, 

And pass the opening gate. 

I HEARD A BIRD. 

I heard a bird sing in a tree, 

So hidden by the foliage, 
Its winsome form I could not see; 
I heard a bird sing in a tree — 

Its song is now a heritage. 

My heart was wild with grief that day; 

The hounds of hell were on my track; 
My soul was in a deadly fray ; 
My heart was wild with grief that day, 

With buffetings demoniac. 

How sweetly sang that unseen bird ! 

Its warbling soothed my troubled breast; 
New courage in my soul it stirred; 
How sweetly sang that unseen bird ; 

It brought me hope and joy and rest. 
66 



THE HUMAN SOUL. 

Who knows the weakness and the strength, 

The happiness and dole, 
The hight, the depth, the breadth, the length 

Of any human soul? 

There peaks of barren Rockies rise, 

In cold and proud disdain; 
Or crimson clouds and azure skies 

To nobler lives constrain. 

In some transcendent souls you find 

Immeasurable deeps, 
Where priceless treasures lie unmined, 

In unproductive heaps. 

One mounts to heavenly domes of song, 

As on seraphic wings; 
Another dirges all day long, 

In mournful cadence sings. 

One dwelling in the smile of God, 

Knows every earthly bliss; 
Another 'neath the scorpion's rod, 

Hears devils moan and hiss. 

In some are vortices where whirl 

Base passion's raging streams; 
In others visions rare impearl 

The poesy of dreams. 

And some have jungles wherein hide 

The secret sins of yore, 
And others caves where wraiths abide, 

In gloom forevermore. 

One only knows the sheen and shine 

Of heaven mirrored seas; 
Another's portion is the wine 

Of wrath's embittered lees. 

67 



In all there is a Monitor 

Who ever will abide, 
And Faith reveals a rising star, 

A never failing guide. 
How happy that imperial soul 

Who seeks the alpine height 
Of Truth and Love and self-control 

And lives and walks in light. 

ONE MORE PEBBLE. 
A child I wander on life's restless sea, 

And here and there upon the shining strand 

I find rare stones, half hidden in the sand ; 
Each glittering pebble seems to speak to me 

Of human vanity and destiny ; 
As there in mediation sweet I stand 
And listen to the voices from my hand, 

My soul is lost in self -forgetful reverie. 
Enchanted by the ocean's lullaby, 

And lured by voices from each precious stone, 
My mother, Nature, with a far-off cry 

Reminds me that the day is nearly gone; 
Oh, let me, mother, said I soft and low, 

Another pebble gather ere I go. 

THE TWO ANGELS. 
Two angels came to earth, and both 

Were given works of love; 
One sore afflictions to entail; 

One healing pools to move. 
Day after day five porches teemed 

With sick and sorrowing folk, 
Waiting until the angel's wing 

The sleeping waters woke. 
Which angel brought the greater boon — 

Both were in mercy sent — 
The one whose touch brought pain, or he 

Who wrought pain's banishment? 
68 



THE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN. 

With joy the lilies we behold, 

In glorious attire, 
But think not of the earthy mold, 

The clay and mire. 

We see the foul and bloody deed, 

But fail to understand, 
The underlying power of greed, 

That nerved the hand. 

Nations emerge from thralldom's night, 

With heyday shout and song; 
But silent forces won the fight 

Against the wrong. 

A face transfigured, sweet, serene, 

Is imaged in the eye; 
None heard the voice of travail keen, 

The piercing cry. 

The signs we see of woe and strife, 

But not the inner peace, 
The deep serenity of life, 

When these shall cease. 

There stands the sturdy oak whose feet 

Are anchored in the rock; 
We did not hear the tempests beat, 

Shock after shock. 

Cathedrals radiate the beams, 

The splendors of the sun; 
The builder's fascinating dreams 

Were known to none. 

We hear the sweet, the glad refrain 

Of freedom's lofty song, 
But never felt the galling chain, 

Endured age long. 

69 



The victors cry, they sing, they weep, 
The drum unceasing rolls, 

But no one saw the courage deep, 
In warrior souls. 

The Seen appeals to outer sense, 

To nature, pomp and art; 
The Unseen to the sentiments 

That lift the heart. 

COMPENSATION. 

The amplitude of shade grows less, 
And nights autumnal lengthen; 

And yet the fruit's deliciousness 
Is here to cheer and strengthen; 

While outer comforts fade away, 

The inner man grows day by day. 

The roses fade, the lilies die, 
Our hearts within us languish; 

The birds forsake the tree and sky, 
And joy is turned to anguish; 

And yet the soul exults and sings, 

Because of pleasures autumn brings. 

For every loss there is a gain ; 

Truth countervails all error; 
The soothing rest that follows pain 

Despoils it of its terror; 
Our peace of soul, our joy of life, 
By far o'erbalance all its strife. 

AWAKE. 

Awake, awake, my soul, 
No longer sleep and dream; 

Each day has gift or goal, 
Ere fades the twilight's beam; 

Seek it, seek it till you find it, 

On your heart securely bind it. 
70 



LIFE'S TANGLED THREAD. 

When I was in the dream of youth, 
With heart aglow with love and truth , 

I seized the shining threads of life; 
I longed to weave some new design, 
In colors rich and rare and fine; 

I laughed at failure in the strife. 

Hour after hour I wove away; 
The work at first seemed only play 

Beneath my eager, ready hands; 
But life was filled with birds and flowers, 
And after these, in sunny bowers, 

My thoughts went out in roving bands. 

The hour of noon drew slowly on, 
And ere my work was well begun 

I found a tangle in my thread; 
With nervous hands I labored long 
In efforts to undo the wrong, 

While precious moments swiftly fled. 

Again the shuttle flew with speed ; 
I now began to feel the need 

Of time because of work misdone; 
Thru haste I failed to choose aright, 
And mingled dark threads with the light, 

As lower sank the evening sun. 

Soon weary grew my busy hands 
Beneath life's labors and demands, 

While needed succor stood aloof; 
The warp of life was made aright 
For weaving pictures fair and bright, 

But I have marred them in the woof. 

The day declines, the darkness comes, 
A chill my tired hand benumbs, 
And slowly steals upon my frame; 
71 



Father above, thou canst perceive 
The rich designs I meant to weave 
In honor of thy holy name. 

With Thee, Lord, it is the heart 
Atones for ignorance of art, 

When unto pure ambitions true; 
Thou dost not only compensate 
Thy servants for deeds good and great, 

But for the things they meant to do, 

LET US BURY OUR DEAD. 

No matter how beloved, how pure, how true, 
How close the darling nestled in the heart, 
When from Death's ready bow the poisoned dart, 

With aim inerrant, to the vitals flew, 

And left his certain mark, on brow the dew, 

So chilling to the touch, with pallid lips apart, 
Thru which the immortal spirit might depart, 

For days or years beyond our mortal view, 

We bore the precious form with tender care, 
And hid it in the grave, with tear-dimmed eyes; 

Thus let us ever with a silent prayer, 
Tho bowed to earth, with help divine, arise, 

Take our dead loves and hopes that suffered blight, 

And bury deeply from all mortal sight. 

IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN. 

As I listen to the thrush, 

O'er my heart there comes a hush — 

A silence and a sadness; 
Days return when every beam 
Seemed a vision and a dream — 

A destiny of gladness: 
Hasten, singer, to depart; 
Take your beak from out my heart; 

You drive me into madness. 
72 



IF I SHOULD EVER BE A KING. 

If I should ever be a king; 

I'd mingle with the crowd, 
And in the highways of the land, 

I would proclaim aloud 
The majesty supreme of law, 

Unwritten or in tome, 
The solidarity of life, 

The sanctity of home. 

If I should ever be a king 

No iron heel of wrong 
Should stifle in the humblest child 

The voice of joy and song. 
I'd batter down the prison walls, 

That hold the souls of men, 
That they might tread the plains and hills 

Of liberty again. 

If I should ever be a king, 

I would not wear a crown. 
I'd seek with hand of sympathy 

The fellow out and down. 
With courage in my look and tone, 

I'd whisper in the ear 
Of every man of poverty 

A word of hope and cheer. 

If I should ever be a king, 

I'd open wide the door 
Of opportunity to all 

The rich as well as poor; 
I'd teach the miserly to give, 

The cruel to be kind, 
And use my utmost powers to break 

The shackles of the mind. 

If I should ever be a king, 

I'd raise the standard high 
Of honesty in heart and life, 
73 



And Love's supremacy. 
I'd teach the bards of pen and brush, 

The guild of hoe and hod, 
The sacred brotherhood of man, 

The Fatherhood of God. 

THE TEMPTER. 
He came not with the cloven hoof, 

Nor came he with protruding horn; 
He did not even breathe reproof; 

His lips revealed no hidden scorn; 
He sought my fancy to beguile, 
With honeyed words and cheery smile. 

He seemed to know that in my heart, 
There was a long concealed desire, 

To make a name renowned in art — 
To be a master of the lyre; 

And flatteries he would rehearse 

Upon my misty, mystic verse. 

And so I sang on lofty themes, 

To souls ethereal who soar 
On pinions lustrous with the beams 

And tints of mythologic lore; 
And very few discerned the thought 
In conjured phrase, so deftly wrought. 

So occupied were spirits high 
In realms imperial of their own, 

With scarce a look, they passed me by, 
To wander on my way alone; 

No sweet companionship I found, 

With souls exclusive and renowned. 

sad the day the tempter came 
To woo me from my humble song, 

When, with no thought of worldly fame, 
I used the simple mother tongue, 

And sang of common things of life, 

Its love, its hope, its joy, its strife. 
74 



A MAID AND HER TWO SUITORS. 

Two suitors to a maiden came, 
And one had wealth, the other fame, 
The one with riches at command 
Essayed the lure of gold and land. 
The luxuries that these would bring, 
A mansion fitted for a king, 
A life of travel o'er the seas, 
Of princely comforts, gilded ease, 
Companionship of those who meet 
At Fashion's brilliant court and seat. 
With countenance serene and grave, 
No word of hope to him she gave. 

With all the blandishments of art, 
The other sought to win her heart, 
He let his eminence declare 
The splendors she would ever share, 
The high estate, the sweet eclat 
Of men the world regards with awe, 
Should her life be with his entwined, 
She would with lords be wined and dined, 
And joined with his would be her name 
Forever on the scroll of fame. 
Her face revealed a touch of woe, 
As eyes responded sadly no. 

I have a brother, she replied, 
With tears that she perforce would hide, 
Unheeding dreams that youth pervade, 
His country's mandate he obeyed, 
His badge of honor is a scar, 
Received on gory fields afar, 
This after-foe of that long strife 
Invades the vitals of his life. 
While slowly ebbs the crimson tide, 
A voice within bids me abide, 
75 



No other now can heed his call, 
I give to him my love, my all. 

He lingered nearly two score years, 
Between what seemed divergent spheres; 
One 'neath the sable wing of death, 
The other vibrant with the breath 
Of hopes that ever sprang anew, 
Like stars at dawn, soon lost to view, 
At last the visored conqueror 
His last thrust made in that deep scar. 
Oh ministry of ministries, 
Inspired by love that never dies; 
Did not this one who kissed the rod 
Give proof of kinship with her God? 



TO ME AND YOU. 

The heart of man has a thousand strings 
With notes that are false and true, 

And sad or joyous the song it sings 
To me and you. 

Sometimes it breathes on the morning air, 
In zephyrs that kiss the dew, 

A message sweet as a maiden's prayer, 
To me and you. 

Then bungling fingers give strains that rise. 
And twang in the heavens blue, 

That echo and echo in mournful sighs 
To me and you. 

Sometimes when the evening stars are rose. 

And jasper and pearl, in hue, 
A rythmic cadence of peace outflows, 

To me and you. 

76 



And then its discords arouse the ire, 
Well known to the world's wild crew, 

That work dismay, like a siren's lyre, 
To me and you. 

Its lofty symphonies in the soul, 

The powers of life renew, 
And make the profligate spirit whole, 

In me and you. 

may this wonderful harp attune 

Its chords to harmonies true, 
In unison with the chimes of June, 

For me and you. 

And may its holiest anthems thrill 

The numberless retinue, 
That follow Him who climbed Calvary's hill, 

With me and you. 

THE HIGHER PURPOSE. 

Not to see all Nature's splendor 
And the blandishments of art, 

But to ripen instincts tender, 
In the deserts of the heart. 

Not to inbreathe air supernal, 
Gladness laden, heaven sent, 

But to outbreathe things eternal, 
Life and love's enfranchisement. 

Not to teach the world its duty, 

Sympathy and self-control, 
But exemplify the beauty 

Of a sincere, well-poised soul. 

Not to tell man of his sinnings, 
And its consequence of pain, 

But to show him faith's beginnings, 
And its everlasting gain. 

77 



Not to heal the body mortal 

Of its maladies galore, 
But to show the open portal 

To the systems that restore. 

Not to sing a little ditty 
To a meager, gaping throng, 

But inspire a mighty city, 
With the primacy of song. 

Not to dole your scanty earnings, 

As a voluntary gift, 
But to foster inward yearnings 

After independent thrift. 

Not the truth to utter merely 
That men in you may confide, 

But that it may grow sincerely, 
And in other hearts abide. 

Not to make the heavenly journey, 
With a selfish end in view, 

But to enter life's high tourney, 
Teaching mankind to be true. 

Not to strive with endless labor, 
Making fame and pelf your goals, 

But to be a friend, a neighbor, 
In sweet fellowship of souls. 

"WHERE ARE THE NINE?" 

Ten came. Despair was in their cry, 

That left an echo in the sky; 

And all were healed, and went their ways, 

Save one who came with heart of praise, 

With voice unspeakably benign, 

The Master said, "Where are the nine?" 

The rains descend on plains and hills, 
That smile with pinks and daffodils; 
The summer gives to peach its blush, 
And melody to throat of thrush; 

78 



There's radiant beauty everywhere. 
Yet this inspires no grateful prayer. 

The years of plenty come and go, 
And rare are those who hunger know; 
The earth its children gratifies 
With high and wholesome ministries, 
Is your soul ever in the mood 
To breathe a word of gratitude? 

Along life's path are those you meet, 
Whose hearts with yours in concord beat; 
Their love for you new born or old, 
Will never in the years grow cold, 
For friendship's wondrous wealth how few 
Consider praise and honor due. 

If solitude has little place 

Among the millions of the race, 

The gift of thankfulness has less 

In souls that heaven yearns to bless. 

And still we hear the Man divine, 

In sorrow ask, "Where are the nine?" 

REASON AND FAITH. 

When Reason fails thru vain surmise 
To reach the peaks of her desire, 

She looks to Faith with wistful eyes, 
To speak to her with tongues of fire. 

Tis Reason formulates the creed, 
Adjusting word and phrase and line, 

But faith transforms it to a deed 
That heaven only can define. 

Our ship of life sails o'er the sea, 
With Reason's hand upon the helm; 

The needle Faith must give the key 
To this unknown, uncharted realm. 

The business world would turn to dust, 
If Reason ruled in shop and mart, 
79 



But Faith does not allow distrust 
To harbor in the human heart. 

There is a light in Reason's eye 
That falls upon the path of life; 

Faith in our sorrow answers why 
It is beset with bitter strife. 

Our Reason walks with crippled feet, 
And with a stumbling, awkward gait, 

But Faith on wings divine and fleet, 
The orbs of heaven emulate. 

The voice of Reason says why die, 
With mess of pottage steaming near, 

Faith contemplates with longing eye 
The first-born's masterful career. 

The ear of Reason only hears 

The roaring of the guns afar, 
Faith sees thru smoke and blood and tears 

Democracy's ascending star. 

The earth is Reason's wide domain, 
The realm of Nature, time and sense; 

Faith soars upon the higher plane 
Of Truth, and God's omnipotence. 

The Christ of Nazareth foresaw 
Time's far beginning and its end; 

He knew that Reason had no law, 

That Faith thru Love could not transcend. 

IF I HAD KNOWN. 

If only I had known 
The rose would perish leaf by leaf 
And leave within my heart this grief, 

Because so quickly gone, 
I would have feasted these poor eyes 
Much longer on its crimson dyes. 
80 



If I had only known 
How soon the warbler would take wing 
To realms of everlasting spring, 

His every note and tone 
I would have treasured in my soul 
Instead of murmuring songs of dole. 

If I had only known 
How brief would be the quiet eve, 
When rays of light would interweave 

The splendors of a throne, 
Where on the day king wins our praise, 
How long it would have won my gaze. 

If I had only known 
That words I spoke in haste, unkind, 
Would rankle in my neighbor's mind, 

That time could not atone, 
I would have held my busy tongue 
Or hummed a cheerful, simple song. 

If I had only known 
A siren lured the wayward feet 
Adown the gay perdition street, 

One of my flesh and bone, 
I gladly would have reached my hand 
To give him power to withstand. 

If only I had known 
How brief would be life's little day, 
How soon they would be called away, 

And I be left alone, 
I never would have caused a tear 
To those my heart of hearts holds dear. 

If only I had known 
How transitory is my breath, 
How real is life, how soon comes death, 

How glittering is the crown 
Of him who conquers in the fray, 
Would I have idled one short day? 
81 



DELUSION. 

Life, alas, has lost its savor, 

Said I in my haste, 
Roses never lose their flavor — 

I have lost my taste. 

Music no more thrills my senses; 

Song's bereft of art, 
I am victim of pretenses — 

Singers have no heart. 

Friendship now is pure illusion, 

Only lives in name, 
Constancy has no confusion — 

Love has lost its flame. 

Sunset skies have shed their glory, 

With the rosy dawn, 
Tis the same old sad, sad story — 

Sense of beauty gone. 

Hear that warbler's voice a-ringing, 

Sweet and round and full? 
Birds no longer charm in singing — 

Ear is growing dull. 

Fruits are flat and tantalizing, 

Luscious now no more, 
How can I my appetizing 

Gastric juice restore? 

Stars have ceased their brilliant twinkling 

In their dome of blue, 
Who has in my eyes been sprinkling 

Dust to hide my view? 

Yesterday, today, forever, 

Pelf is always pelf, 
Earth may pass, but heaven never — 

Change is in myself. 

82 



LEND A HAND. 

The man self-centered wins disdain, 

In earthly strife; 
Tis he who serves his race shall gain 

The crown of life. 

There are about us not a few 

Disordered souls, 
Who with ambitions sane and true, 

Seek higher goals. 

They look with wavering faith and eye 

Across the bar; 
Hear faintly Honor's pleading cry, 

On hights afar. 

They limp along the king's highway, 

In blindness born; 
They long to see the light of day, 

A cloudless morn. 

They hear the gentle voice that calls 

To Liberty; 
Ask us to batter down the walls, 

That hide the sky. 

A word will often turn the tide — 

To crimson streams — 
To channels where serenely glide 

The poet's dreams. 

When touched with hands of healing by 

A saintly one, 
The bird with broken wing will fly 

Nearer the sun. 

Give them the pledge, the hailing sign, 

The helping hand, 
That they may taste the fruits and wine 

Of Eden's land. 

83 



If you would reach the peaks of joy — 

A royal throne, 
Where Love abides, without alloy, 

Go not alone. 

TEMPLES. 

In lands afar, long years ago, 

The heathen formed their shrines 

In temples, less for use than show 
Of beautiful designs 

And Christians following the trend, 

Cathedrals gorgeous built, 
Their faith decadent to defend, 

And adding to their guilt. 

They were resplendent works of art, 

Yet to the passer-by, 
Who had within the hearing heart, 

They uttered one long cry. 

Were meant to honor Him who came 

To open heaven's door; 
Instead they brought distress and shame 

To hovels of the poor. 

For each foundation stone was laid 

Upon a living soul, 
While autocrats would masquerade, 

Bewolved in priestly stole. 

Will churches ever, thru new birth, 

Learn from the living Word, 
That those who house the poor of earth, 

Build temples to their Lord? 

In hearts alone where Truth abides, 

With Love in full control, 
There stand, unmoved by storms or tides, 

The temples of the soul. 
84 



MY WISH FOR YOU. 

While I wish for you fruition, 
Of your dearest hope and goal, 

Loss may have a nobler mission 
For the building of your soul. 

Misfortune may unveil your eyes 

To higher, worthier emprise. 

While I wish you in full measure 
Honors that can never cheat, 

I would have you win the treasure 
Of occasional defeat. 

Disaster is a sorceress 

Who conjures in us humbleness. 

Nor shall all your days be lighted 
With the heavens all a-smile; 

Spirits that have been benighted 
By the storm-clouds for awhile, 

Like bulbs uncouth hid in the mold, 

Have bloomed with calyxes of gold. 

If you have the truth within you, 
You will have foe after foe; 

But your will has bone and sinew, 
That the righteous only know, 

If when they slander no unrest 

Disturbs the temper of your breast. 

Fortune is a goddess fateful, 
Sometimes to the inner life, 

Making men capricious, hateful, 
Prone to bitterness and strife; 

Tis failure, poverty, distress, 

Reveals our worth or worthlessness. 

Have you never read the story, 
Told to John in days of old, 
85 



How in upper courts of glory, 

When the gates have backward rolled, 
Earth's ransomed hosts shall sing a song 
That never fell from Seraph's tongue? 

FORGET IT. 

If a friend has been disloyal 
To you in your hour of need 

Then it is you should be royal, 
In your character and deed — 
Just forget it. 

If you have been made a fool of 
By some willy-nilly maid, 

Or have truckled, as a tool of 
Some insidious renegade — 
Just forget it. 

If a neighbor has been cruel, 
Casting slander on your name, 

Hold your peace, and add no fuel, 
By your anger, to the flame — 
Just forget it. 

If you have, thru some disaster, 
Lost a thousand, more or less 

Do not let misfortune master 

All the powers that you possess- 
Just forget it. 

If you have been basely living, 
On the desert wastes of sin, 

Know that God is all forgiving, 
And a nobler life begin — 
Just forget it. 

To suggestions of the devil 

Do not give the slightest heed; 
Answer every act of evil 

With a generous, kindly deed — 
Then forget it. 

86 



INDIAN SUMMER IN KANSAS. 

Like babe asleep on mother's breast, 
The haze now slumbers on the wold, 

And day enrobed for night of rest, 
Is garnished with the dust of gold. 

In royal state the harvest moon 

Brought in her arms the fruits of cheer; 
The autumn now is in a swoon, 

And warns us of the dying year. 

As flowers fade and birds depart, 

O'er all there comes a death-like hush, 

That leaves faint echoes in the heart 
Of whippoorwill and hermit thrush. 

With arms akimbo leafless trees 
In pensive mood stand all day long, 

And in a whisper ask the breeze, 
Who robbed thee of the gift of song? 

The twilight with a ruddier face, 

Is featuring a broader smile, 
And strives, with more bewitching grace, 

The hearts of lovers to beguile. 

The little stars refuse to shine, 
Or in the mist are lost to sight, 

While larger ones, with beams benign, 
And tender halo, crown the night. 

There breathes no longer on the air 
The fragrance of the pink or rose; 

A dandelion here and there, 
Alone, in golden beauty glows. 

The mountain peaks, the distant hills, 
No more in outline bold appear, 

But like the woods that guard the rills, 
Are fringed with lace of gossamer, 

87 



Oh mild and mellow autumn days, 
That clothe all nature with a stole — 

With cowl and vestment soft of haze 
You calm the tumults of the soul. 

DONT GO TO SEED. 

Don't go to see. Don't shrivel up 

Into a little pod, 
And let your sear and yellow leaves 

Deface the verdant sod. 
There's much to live for yet awhile; 
Just give the world a sunny smile. 

Don't go to seed. The earth is full 

Of people in decay, 
Whose failing vision only sees 

The dying of the day. 
Lift up your drooping head on high; 
Behold the glories of the sky. 

Don't go to seed, my daisy friend, 
Drink in the dew and rain; 

The aster and the goldenrod 
Still gladden all the plain. 

Unfold your pedals, bloom again 

Along the dreary walks of men. 

Don't go to seed, my hearts-ease friend, 
You may be fragrant still, 

With many a thought and word and deed 
That savor of good will. 

The hungry world hath need of thee 

To save it from despondency. 

Don't go to seed, my tulip friend, 

Just sing a little song, 
Imparting courage to the weak 

To triumph over wrong. 
In human speech the sweetest chord 
Of music is the kindly word. 
88 



THE LITTLE TOWN. 

I long have harbored the secret fear, 

As subjects human I often scan — 
The thought may strike some as being queer- 

A little town makes a little man. 

When oft you see at too close a range 
The turpitude of a dwarfish soul, 

You may unconsciously suffer change 
From worthy aim to a sordid goal. 

A near-by neighborhood is ruled by greed, 
And yet his manner is always kind; 

Still you may with an alarming speed, 
To his malfeasance grow wholly blind. 

You train with men of a growing fame, 
Whose courtly manners your heart entice; 

You see them tipple, you do the same, 
And gravitate to the same low vice. 

You dare not meddle with small concerns 

Of busybodies on Gossip Row; 
A true ambition forever spurns 

The staple food of the carrion crow. 

No pent-up Utica can confine, 

Nor can be fettered with iron chain, 

The man who seeks, thru desire divine, 
A wider field and a higher plane. 

Tho you may live in a place obscure, 

Let not its limits your spirit bar; 
Horizons broader must ever lure, 

Pursue you must an ascending star. 

Look on things narrow, indecent, base 
With high disdain and a lowering frown; 

And have no part in the old disgrace — 
The little talk of the little town. 

89 



DEPENDENCE. 

My heart is only common loam, 

With every kind of weed; 
No flowers there will ever bloom, 

Unless God sows the seed. 

A very ordinary tide 

Is coursing thru my veins ; 

The air of heaven must provide 
The crimson it attains. 

My eye receives the usual light 
That comes to man and beast; 

I must be blessed with inner sight, 
To see the soul's high priest. 

The sounds that others hear forsooth, 

Fall on this ear of mine; 
If I would hear eternal truth, 

The voice must be divine. 

A rough cocoon I now appear; 

None but a Power within 
Transforms my life — come not too near, 

Or wings I may not win. 

My soul is like a dull cold stone, 

Until some vagrant ray 
Reveals a beauty only shown, 

Thru pearly gates of day. 

There is no music in my breast, 

Unless on chords of love 
The Spirit's breath is manifest, 

Descending from above. 
90 



SIMON OF CYRENE. 

Along the way of sorrow went 

The Man of Nazareth, 
And Golgotha, with strength forespent, 

He faced, but feared not death. 

A spark of pity lingered yet 

In hearts of bitter hate, 
When they beheld the bloody sweat, 

On face disconsolate. 

And Simon of Gyrene stood, 
And saw the pain and pall; 

Him they compel to bear the rood, 
Outside the city wall. 

honored man of all the earth, 
The first the cross to bear, 

Of Him who came to show the worth 
Of heaven's child and heir. 

And Jesus drew no "color line," 

When Simon came to lift 
His burden, soon to be the sign 

Of love's divinest gift. 

Must Simon of Cyrene still 

The cross of Jesus bear, 
And are there none to help fulfill 

Old Ethiopia's prayer? 

Must she yet hold her empty hands 

In silence up to God 
Forever bear the stigma brands, 

Made by the slaver's rod? 

And does the color of the skin 

Put him beneath the ban 
Of prejudice, the world-wide sin. 

That damns the race of man? 
91 



MY GUESTS. 

A guest unbidden came one day, 

And knocked for entrance at my door; 

I rose the summons to obey, 
And this the unseemly name he bore — 

Too dreadful for a sigh, or tear, 

It smote my very heart — 'Twas Fear. 

And 'mid the gloom that settled down 

Upon my spirit's domicile, 
My door again was open thrown, 

And with a stealthy tread, and still, 
Unwelcomed came another guest, 

And sat beside me — 'Twas Unrest. 

I sat in abject silence bowed; 

My quivering lips no greeting gave, 
In whispers or in words aloud; 

My heart thru faith grew strangely brave; 
A prayer to heaven's chancery flew 
For Hope, my friend, long tried and true. 

She came upon the wings of light, 
And such the radiance of her face, 

My guests shrank from the wondrous sight, 
And sought another biding place; 

And with Hope came, serene and coy, 

Another guest — her name is Joy. 

POKING THE FIRE. 

For years a couple lived and loved, 

With only one desire; 
But by and by a difference came; 
At first 'twas but a smothered flame, 

But each one poked the fire. 

Tho smoldering all the long, long years, 
It burned a little higher, 
92 



Because each one would use a prong 
Of that right handy little tong(ue), 
And slightly poke the fire. 

Sometimes it made but little smoke, 

And threatened to expire, 
And would have died, had it not been 
That each committed that small sin 

Of poking up the fire. 

Deluded souls, why could ye not 

Let Trust again inspire 
Your hearts, as in the days of old, 
When morn was silver, evening gold, 

And love the only fire? 

WHEREFORE GRIEVE? 

I followed long my star agleam, 
Whose light had filled my soul; 

You caught the spirit of my dream, 
And reached the longed-for goal. 

With hope aflame I left the strand, 

To find a watery grave; 
But pressing toward the Promised Land 

You stemmed the boisterous wave. 

In clambering up the mountain height, 

I perished on the way; 
Undaunted you climbed all the night, 

And saw the dawning day. 

I sank in view of oases, 

Upon the sandy waste; 
You rest beneath majestic trees 

And healing waters taste. 

What then is failure or success, 

If, at the pearly gate, 
The angels in their blessedness 

Our coming there await? 

93 



HE IS NOT GROWING OLD. 

He is not growing old, 

Altho his locks are gray, 
If on his brow no clouds 

Are seen the long, long day; 
Nor is he ever lost 

To blandishments of art, 
While he gives evidence 

Of summer in the heart. 

He is not growing old, 

Tho Time has plowed his face 
With furrows here and there, 

Devoid of comely grace, 
If laughter ripples still 

Along the unseen nerve, 
And makes the wrinkles glow 

With beauty's radiant curve. 

He is not growing old, 

Tho at a slower gait, 
He passes to and fro, 

With countenance sedate, 
If with a statelier tread, 

He marches to the tomb; 
He knows this is the door 

To his eternal home. 

He is not growing old — 

The righteous never die; 
He only is transformed, 

As worm to butterfly; 
The fleshly robe decays, 

Returns to common sod; 
The spirit finds delight 

In ministries of God. 
94 



BEYOND. 

Beyond the ocean scenes allure us — 

Forest, prairie, lake and stream, 
Where sunlight falls in richer splendor, 

Starlight gives a softer gleam; 
To be enchanted by their beauty 

Ever is the poet's dream. 

Beyond the snow-clad mountain fastness, 

There are valleys of repose, 
That yield perennial flower and fruitage, 

Sweeter than the peach and rose, 
And men who seek a fairer country 

Let no barriers interpose. 

Beyond the earth's rock-girded surface 

Are rare treasures hidden deep, 
For ages waiting for the delver, 

Precious metals, heap on heap; 
How eagerly men work in caverns, 

That a fortune they may reap. 

Beyond the touch and reach of senses 

Is a region mystic, real, 
Where nature in her deep recesses, 

Mighty forces long conceal, 
Until a wizard as by magic 

All their secrets doth reveal. 

Beyond the spheres revolving near us, 
In the unblazed realms of space, 

Where worlds on worlds in rhythmic measure, 
Unseen paths forever trace, 

There man would turn his aided vision, 
Bring the unknown face to face. 

SAY IT TO HIS FACE. 

If thou hast a word of censure, 
For some wrong a man has done, 

95 



Do not risk the sad adventure, 
Whispering to some other one — 
Say it to his face. 

If you hear a flying rumor, 
Slandering a faithful friend, 

Do not manifest ill humor, 
And the story further vend — 
Say it to his face. 

If a neighbor has been busy, 
Circulating some old tale, 

If you would "Keep up with Lizzie," 
Let your better sense prevail — 
Say it to his face. 

Do not get in some dark corner, 
Or behind a bedroom door, 

And like little Johnny Horner, 
At some culprit make a roar — 
Say it to his face. 

Let the gossip's long tongue waggle, 
Back of lips of cold deceit; 

Do not niggle, do not naggle; 
Never round the old bush neat — 
Say it to his face. 

Honesty is always loyal, 
Kindness never can offend; 

Be ye open-hearted, royal, 

To your foe as well as friend — 
Say it to his face. 



THE DAYS OF OLD. 

The morning dawns with crimson glow, 
Gilding the dew drops with its rays, 
96 



That shine like pearls and diamonds rare 
Upon the grass along my ways; 

All nature bathes in floods of light, 
As in my happy youthful days. 

The sun mounts up with quickened pace, 
And rides the heavens high at noon; 

I see the glow, I feel the warmth, 
The ardency of summer's swoon, 

And hear within my heart the notes 
Of Nature's voices in sweet tune. 

The sun fast sinking in the west 

Still tips the mountain peaks with gold, 

And like a shepherdess the moon 
Her flock of clouds doth safety fold, 

And sleepless stars, like sentinels 
Watch o'er them as in days of old. 

All Nature wears the same sweet face, 
The same bright stars above me shine; 

The seasons come, the seasons go, 

The same fair flowers my pathway twine, 

And singing birds in templed woods 
Still charm this listening heart of mine. 

And yet, and yet my holden eyes 
Behold no more the tender grace, 

The potent charms, the subtle power, 
They once discerned on Nature's face, 

In field and sky, in flower and star, 
That won the heart in youthful days. 

THE MAPLE TREES. 

The Maple trees, the Maple trees, 
Are flaming like the bush 

That Moses, with unsandaled feet, 
Saw at the twilight's hush. 

97 



It is their time of pentecost, 
And with their tongues of fire 

They now declare, in wordless speech, 
Man's infinite desire. 

Oh Maple trees, oh Maple trees, 

You tell of autumn's death, 
And glorify old nature's face, 

In her expiring breath 
Each leaf is like a burning torch 

That banishes the gloom, 
And all the spectral forms that haunt 

The chambers of the tomb. 

Dear Maple trees, dear Maple trees, 

Give me a heart of flame, 
That shall, 'mid desolation drear, 

Eternal life proclaim; 
And when the autumn of my days 

Shall end with winter's moan, 
Oh gorgeous trees, may I possess 

A glory like your own. 

THE VALLEY OF THE BLEST. 

Far beyond the mountain ledges, 
Where the snows forever gleam, 

Past the marshes rank with sedges, 
Past the sullen, murky stream, 

There my weary soul would rest, 

In the Valley of the Blest. 

Undisturbed by city's terror. 

Far removed from all its strife, 
Handicapped no more by error, 

In the heart or in the life, 
There my soul shall find its rest, 
In the Valley of the Blest. 
98 



Deaf to warring tongues of slander, 
Smirching many an honored name, 

Troubled not by scenes that pander 
To the senses lost to shame, 

Sweet and long shall be my rest, 

In the Valley of the Blest. 

I have seen it in my dreaming, 

Like a vision of delight, 
Beautiful beyond all seeming, 

Ravishing my inner sight, 
Where my troubled soul shall rest, 
In the Valley of the Blest. 

I would take the wings of morning, 

Over land and over sea, 
Earth and all its pleasures scorning. 

In my eagerness to be 
Where my fainting soul may rest, 
In the Valley of the Blest. 

BLIND AND DEAF AND DUMB. 

There is a retroactive phase of life, 

A universal law, 

Without a fleck or flaw, 
That leads us into ways of peace or strife. 

Am I unloved? I do not blame my stars. 

My neighbor, kith or kin. 

The trouble lies within. 
My soul has built its own strong prison bars. 

Am I without a friend? The reason's plain, 

There's no responsive chord, 

No sympathetic word, 
For those whose true allegiance I would gain. 
99 



Instead of joy am I oppressed with dole? 

These years I have not sought, 

By cheerful word or thought, 
To banish clouds of darkness from one soul. 

The good in others do I fail to see? 

Then I have shut the door 

On earth's divinest lore, 
And in my blindness lost the magic key. 

A kindly word inspires a kindly deed. 

I reap the grain I sow. 

No flowers bud and blow 
Along my path, unless I plant the seed. 

Your Lord you never can see face to face, 

Until you shut your eyes 

To glories of the skies, 
And help restore one Pleiad to his place. 

THAT LITTLE CANDLE. 

A poet of the Occident 

Was threading London's busy street, 
And when the day was almost spent, 

A courteous stranger chanced to meet. 

He grasped the poet's kindly hand, 
And looking in his gentle eye, 

"Do not my boldness reprimand," 
He said, "Nor privilege deny." 

"When but a wanderer here and there, 
I read by chance your Psalm of Life; 

It gave me courage, hope and cheer, 
Made me a hero in the strife." 

O singer in this world of woes, 

You little know your work or worth — 

How far that little candle throws 
Its flickering beam upon the earth. 
100 



BLIND MILTON. 

He knew the darkness of a night, 

Without a moon or star, 
And yet his soul dwelt in the light, 

That shone from hights afar. 

Was it the hand, nail torn, divine, 
That made the sightless balls 

The hidden things to see, define, 
Behind the jasper walls? 

To look on courts, exalted, vast, 
Where evil hordes conspired, 

And hear rebellion's bugle blast, 
That hearts with treason fired; 

To see in Satan's vengeful eyes 
The lightning flash of hate, 

A host in heaven's liveries, 
Yet spirits reprobate; 

And over azure battlements, 

Behold the forces hurled, 
In fury of impenitence, 

Down to the nether world; 

In vision clear see the abyss, 

That yawns forevermore, 
And hear the devils moan and hiss, 

Along the Stygean shore. 

As osi the pinions of a dove, 
In realms of faith he soars, 

Portrays the wonders of the love, 
That Paradise restores. 

He sees the Man of Nazareth, 

God's gift and sacrifice; 
His triumph o'er the grave and death. 

And ascent to the skies. 
101 



O mighty seer, poet true, 
Blessed with thy inner sight, 

We too would see things old and new, 
In heaven's clearer light. 

LONG AFTER I GO HENCE. 

The winding river still will run 

In murmurs toward the sea, 
The changing moon reflect the sun, 

The stars dance on the lea, 
Long after I shall pass 
To rest in tent of grass. 

Each year the birds shall join the choir, 

The harbingers of spring, 
And flowers, with their urns of fire, 

Abroad their incense fling, 
Long after I recline 
Where morning glories twine. 

And men shall still pursue the prize 

That vanity holds dear, 
And fashion captivate the eyes 

Of levity and leer, 
Long after I repose, 
In peace with friends and foes. 

And labor still will seek reward, 

And nations agitate, 
While Dives greater wealth will hoard, 

With Lazarus at his gate, 
Long after I shall rest 
On Mother Earth's cold breast. 

The truth will always make her plea 

For loyalty sincere, 
While error still shall bow the knee, 

In slavery and fear, 
Long after I go hence, 
Where ends all vain pretense. 
102 



LET ME IN. 

My name is sunlight, here I stand 
Before your temple's bolted door, 

With untold blessings in my hand, 
To build, to strengthen and restore 
The arches, columns, walls and floor, 

In building wonderfully planned. 

Day after day here I have stood, 

Beseechingly and silently, 
Intentions merciful and good, 

With gifts beneficent and free; 

While in thy house, unknown to thee, 
Thy foes increase their fatal brood. 

I come with every break of day, 
And stay until the set of sun, 

And knock with every blazing ray, 
Hoping that entrance may be won, 
The work of restoration done, 

Disease and death be held at bay. 

Instead of opening wide the door, 
You strangely hide yourself from me, 

And mope about on basement floor, 
Or into dark apartments flee, 
Where lurk the germ insanity, 

And insectivora galore. 

I put the blush upon the peach, 
The tints upon the daffodil, 

In not a vale or mountain reach, 
Or verdant plain where flows the rill, 
I fail my mission to fulfill, 

But man will not my help beseech. 

My beauty glistens in the eye, 

And mantles on the maiden's cheek; 

The earth, the ocean and the sky, 

The splendors of my power bespeak, 
It guilds Orion's highest peak, 

With glories that can never die. 
103 



"HEADS I WIN." 

If you desire to be the head, 

And not the tail, 
Do not the common highway tread, 

But hit the trail. 

Join in the chorus of the crowd, 

Near or remote, 
But on your trombone sound aloud, 

A sweeter note. 

If wisdom to your fellowmen 

You long to teach, 
Seek to attain, in tongue and pen, 

Diviner speech. 

Still digging in old mines you gain 

A meager yield; 
Strike out, and find a richer vein, 

In some new field. 

Be one of those who dare and do — 

A pioneer; 
Direct in ways untried and new 

Your charioteer. 

"All common good has common price" 

The poet writes; 
By climbing only can you rise 

To alpine nights. 

Redeem the time, delays foreswear, 

Cast out all fear; 
Let no day pass that does not bear 

Your imprint clear. 

An angel's wing some day or night 

Your door will jar; 
Arise, pursue, and keep in sight 

His guiding star. 

104 



THE TOWN BOOSTER. 

He stands erect, and looks ahead, 

And forward moves, with stalwart tread; 

The three large words before his eyes 

Are Beauty, Growth and Enterprise, 

Emblazoned on his pennant high, 

Uplifted toward a favoring sky. 

He sees on street, and park, and lawn, 

A fairer day begin to dawn, 

When hearts that love the beautiful, 

And hands trained in the dutiful, 

Unite with taste and skill to trace 

The touch of art on nature's face. 

The petty questions that arise 

In souls contracted, money-wise, 

Are never harbored in his thought, 

Nor are excuses ever sought 

To gain his wealth along the road 

That leads by stealth to civic fraud. 

No worthy public enterprise, 

Involving human destinies, 

That gives to hand and heart and brain 

Development and moral gain, 

Is by this noble man ignored, 

Nor help from him in vain implored. 

His heart is linked with each emprise 

That sees more stately mansions arise, 

That beautifies each avenue, 

And with an instinct high and true, 

He builds a city great and strong, 

Renowned in story and in song. 

HOW DID HE LIVE? 

I ask you not to tell me how 
He shuffled off this mortal coil, 

When death-dew on his clammy brow 
Turned cold the pearly sweat of toil; 
105 



Or what the circumstance of time 

Or place or cause that you might give; 

These things are naught but pantomime — 
The question is, How did he live? 

He may have perished in the seas, 

His vessel wrecked by boisterous wave; 
Securely held by sea-grass lees, 

His body may have found a grave; 
It matters not if on the land, 

Or ocean's bed fermentative; 
The question I would fain demand 

Is this, my friend, How did he live? 

His spirit may have passed away 

Upon a downy bed of ease, 
As quietly as summer's day 

Dies with the falling evening breeze; 
Or in a bloody battle field, 

In love of home superlative; 

I do not care, my dying friend, 

How you pass thru the gate of death; 
In fiery chariot ascend, 

Or cyclone catch your latest breath; 
The question of all questions is, 

And there is no alternative, 
If you would know life's sweetest bliss, 

Not how you die, but how you live. 

LIVE YOUR OWN TRUE LIFE. 

Just live your own true life, 

Without dismay; 
Unmoved by outward circumstance, 

Or inward love of gain; 
Knowing that nothing comes by chance 

To hand or heart or brain; 
Just live your own true life, 

And brighter grows the way. 
106 



Just live your own true life, 

Without deceit; 
Be true to your own self and God, 

And true to brother man; 
Enduring pain by fire or rod, 

Or ignominious ban ; 
Just live your own true life, 

And never fear defeat. 

Just live your own true life, 

Without pretence; 
Be what you seem each day, each year; 

Be truth your guiding star; 
If you have love that casts but fear, 

Your future none can mar; 
Just live your own true life, 

And never court offense. 

Just live your own true life, 

Without alloy; 
To your own Lord you stand or fall ; 

If naught your heart allure 
From Him who should be all in all, 

Your recompense is sure ; 
Just live your own true life, 

Your portion will be joy. 

DISPARAGED. 

An unseen spirit led my willing soul, 
Where living springs of poesy abound. 

And now a hand impelled by hate or dole, 

Has dashed my cup o'erflowing to the ground. 

My human lips by angels had been kissed 
To strains of harmony almost divine, 

But now these visitants thus rudely hissed, 
No more their hovering wings about me twine. 

107 



The muses led me in an untried path, 

Where birds and flowers inspire to melodies, 

But hearing that impatient word of wrath, 
They fled with tears a-glisten in their eyes. 

A fire was kindled in my very bones, 

That burst thru barriers to flames of song; 

The furnace of my heart now only owns 
Black ashes as reminders of the wrong. 

THE ARCHER. 

The archer stands anear our path, 

And in his love or wrath, 
He bends the bow, and pulls the string, 

That gives the arrow wing. 

The mark that has for him most charms 

Is in a mother's arms, 
And tears of Rachel fall like rain 

For infants foully slain. 

He shoots with little thought or care 

His arrows every where; 
'Tis lucky for us if a dart 

Shall leave unscathed the heart. 

It happens when his eye is dim 

He barely hurts a limb ; 
We only make a little groan, 

Or injury disown. 

When lower burns life's flickering flame, 

He takes a surer aim, 
And wounds the coming months reveal, 

That time can only heal. 

But soon or late a poisoned dart 
Will strike a mortal part, 

108 



Entailing ailments long or brief, 
From which death brings relief. 

Oh, archer, be ye friend or foe, 
This understand and know — 

Whatever arrows you control, 
Not one can touch the soul. 

With darts you may the body fill, 

According to your skill ; 
Not one can reach the star-lit zone, 

Where love sits on her throne. 

THE FUNERAL OF A BABE. 

Out of a world of sin, 
Out of a world of sorrow, 

Into the grass-thatched inn, 

Sheltered there till the morrow. 

Out of the gloom of night, 

Into a day eternal; 
Out of a land of blight, 

Into a realm supernal. 

Only a few brief hours, 
Nestling on bosom tender; 

Now she nestles where flowers 
Never shall lose their splendor. 

Why should our human eyes 
Shed the salt tears of sorrow; 

Look, in the east the skies 

Dawn with a brighter morrow. 

There in the mansions blest, 
Guarded by pearly portal, 

The darling sweet doth rest, 
Crowned with a Love immortal. 
109 



THE SMILE OF GOD. 

While wandering with aimless feet, 
I saw a flower divinely sweet, 

Upspringing from the sod; 
It gave my heart untold delight, 
And seemed to my enraptured sight 

The smile of God. 

Beside my path one summer day, 
I saw a beauteous child at play, 

Amid the golden-rod ; 
And in that face so fair and bright 
I saw a vision infinite — 

The smile of God. 

When Night her field of blue unbars, 
And at their own sweet will the stars 

In beauty go abroad, 
Each stately orb in measured flight 
Seems to my ever-ravished sight 

The smile of God. 

"LIZ." 

Tell me not she had no soul, 

When her eyes shone with a light, 
Gently as the stars at night, 

Fleck with beauty shore and shoal. 

Tell me not she had no speech, 
As with limb and mouth and eye, 
To our wish she'd make reply, 

And our kindnesses beseech. 

Tell me not she had no love; 
Hers would put to very shame, 
Such as many mortals claim, 

Who in upper circles move. 

If this dog possessed no soul, 
Then affection, confidence, 
Loyalty without pretense, 

Neither hath reward nor goal. 
110 



JAKE AND JIM. 

(Inspired by and Inscribed to Jacob L. Loose, 
Kansas City, Mo.) 

On a busy city street 

Two old cronies chanced to meet; 

One a multi-millionaire, 

Other had no cash to spare; 
Yet when they met face to face, 
Formal greetings had no place — 

Hello Jim, old fellow, shake; 

Is that you, old comrade Jake? 

Jake was standing near his car, 
Dreaming of some land afar, 

But his dreams all quickly flew, 

When his old friend came in view, 
Come, Jim, let us take a ride; 
Here's my wife, sit by her side; 

This, dear, is my old friend Jim; 

Move along, make room for him. 

How the tires of rubber sang, 

And the honk at crossings rang, 
As they swept the boulevard, 
Passed, with utter disregard, 

Cab, baruche and tallyho, 

Swifter, swifter on they go, 

Jake a-talking Jim most blind, 
Jim's hair cracking in the wind. 

How they talked and how they laughed, 

As the bracing air they quaffed ; 

Cussed and discussed early days, 
Much to censure, much to praise; 

How the years, as they rolled by, 

One brought wealth, one penury; 
But today they both were boys, 
Sharing common hopes and joys. 
Ill 



Do you not remember, Jim, 

When we went to take a swim, 
And the culprit, Billy Fitch, 
Stole our clothing, every stitch, 

And we scudded home that morn, 

Naked as when we were born? 
Jake, you know I can't forget, 
When you think of one we met. 

Nor have you forgotten, Jake, 

How you made your first great stake 
Buying corn at fifteen cents, 
"Turned the trick," two seasons hence, 

Making, when grasshoppers came, 

You a batter in the game. 

Surely in this strike you won, 
Giving you your first home run. 

Where is your old girl, Corinne, 

That you wooed but didn't win? 
'Twas for you a lucky slip, 
Jim, betwixt the cup and lip. 

While it nearly turned your head, 

Made you brother to the dead, 
Better suffer then, my friend, 
Than be henpecked to the end. 

You were very lucky, Jake, 
Always lived on cream and cake; 

Won the fairest girl in town, 

Who is still your joy and crown; 
Fortune dowered you with gold, 
With it pleasures manifold; 

Made your cup run o'er the brim; 

Gave an empty cup to Jim. 

Jake, you've twice been round the world, 
Thru its wondrous cities whirled; 
Seen its nabobs in the east, 
Sat with them at many a feast; 
112 



Looked on empires of the west, 
Seen their people, worst and best; 
I've not even had a peep 
At the blue and briny deep. 

Like a Jehu the chauffeur 
Thru the suburbs drove the car; 

When the shadows longer grew, 

Up the stately avenue, 
Came they to a mansion grand, 
Liveried servants at command; 

Jim, this is our little nest; 

Bide with us, and be our guest. 

Soon the chime bell made a call 

To the spacious dining hall; 

Fruits from shrub and vine and tree, 
Viands from beyond the sea; 

Meats delicious, costly, rare, 

Neath the candelabra's glare; 

Eat now, Jim, said laughing Jake, 
Till you have the stomachake. 

Long they talked of olden times, 

When their lives were joyous rhymes, 
Set to some melodious score, 
Now the heart's divinest lore; 

Memory only had the key 

To the precious treasury; 

With cajolery this was won, 
Till the feast of tales was done. 

Then the organ lifts its tones, 
Harps and warbles, trills and moans; 
Now you hear cathedral bells, 
Then birds caroling in dells; 
Flute and bagpipe, horn and drum, 
Hear they while with silence dumb, 

Jake, says Jim, with streaming eyes, 
Where am I, in Paradise? 
113 



Swiftly passed the evening hours, 
Charmed with song, regaled with flowers; 

Half regretful Jim was led 

To a dainty, downy bed; 
With a goodnight word from Jake, 
There to rest till morn should break, 

Sweetly dreaming of the day, 

Poverty shall flee away. 

WATCHING THE FIRE. 

How the fire doth aspire, 
And is ever reaching higher! 
In the grate it never lingers, 
But lifts up its empty fingers, 
Into regions purer, higher, 
In a whirlwind of desire. 

How distinctly I remember, 
In that cool and calm December, 
When I saw the fire ascending, 
Still aspiring, always blending, 
As it mounted high and higher, 
In a whirlwind of desire. 

Why cannot our hearts aspire, 
Flaming upward like the fire, 
Reaching toward the Christ ideal, 
Things eternal, holy, real; — 
Oh, my soul, mount higher, higher, 
In a whirlwind of desire. 

BEGIN ANEW. 

The scenes of yester eve 

Have vanished with its wrongs; 

Be wise, and do not grieve, 
But greet the day with songs; 

Each morn begin your life anew, 

And higher, nobler things pursue. 
114 



WILLIAM McKINLEY. 
Read at the Memorial Service, Chanute. 

The Ship of State sails grandly on, 
And sails forever toward the dawn. 
The beauty of the Builder's thought 
Into the stately craft was wrought; 
And floating from the Master's hand 
The years have proved it wisely planned. 
Its beams were laid in prayer and song, 
In love of right, in hate of wrong; 
From stem to stern its mighty keel 
Was held in place by hands of steel, 
Its timbers, laid by plumb and line, 
Were made from cedar and from pine 
From forests on the northern lakes, 
To Georgia's lowly, sun-kissed brakes. 
Twas ribbed and bound below, above, 
With girders strong of faith and love. 
It had the strength of iron and oak, 
And as the builders, stroke on stroke, 
Put board and spar and beam in place, 
It grew to beauteous form and grace. 

When launched by patriot hearts, and brave, 
And given to the wind and wave, 
It sailed forth like a thing of life, 
All ready for the storm and strife 
That might beset its voyage high 
To an immortal destiny. 
'Twas heaven gave it to the seas 
With armament of Love's decrees, 
To waken all the world to song, 
Enthroning right, dethroning wrong, 
And from its mast the banner flies, 
That reaches nearest to the skies; 
The stars upon the azure field, 
Sweet promise to the nations yield 
Of righteous liberty to all, 
And justice tho the heavens fall. 
115 



And sailing thru a hundred years, 
A thousand times beset by fears, 
And weathering the darkest night, 
The crafty captains of the brine 
Afar have watched the moving line; 
With joy they saw the deadly flame, 
That only burned our ancient shame, 
Leaving a burnished Ship of State 
To master latitudes of fate. 

There stands a pilot at the wheel, 
Whose heart yearns for the common weal 
Of all on board. The sea and sky 
Are ever in his watchful eye. 
Beneath his hand the grand old ship 
Sails o with many a bound and leap 
In safety past the rock-bound shore, 
Where foaming billows break and roar. 

Over this sea-worn Ship of State, 
A captair rules, wise and sedate, 
Whose voice is heard in calm and storm 
To speak in peace or sound alarm. 
He sees the nation's trend and goal, 
And with fidelity of soul, 
Tho burdened with his mighty charge, 
He seeks to guide the stately barge, 
Into a port whence stretch a land, 
Where never swayed the tyrant's hand, 
Where the oppressor's lustful breed 
Has not yet sown pernicious seed — 
The dragon teeth of savage hate, 
To spr'ng up warriors soon or late, 
To curse the land and rob the state. 

And captains come and captains go, 
As years like rapid rivers flow. 
When one strong hand lets go the helm, 
No threatening dangers overwhelm; 
116 



Another hand as strong and brave, 
Directs the vessel o'er the wave, 
It has been thus — shall ever be 
Till time gives back eternity. 

The Ship of State sails grandly on, 
And will until millennium's dawn. 
Not always had she sailing fair; 
The elements have been at war; 
Tumultuous waves have rolled and tossed, 
Until it seemed all would be lost; 
And yet the captain and the crew, 
With steady hands and purpose true, 
Enabled her to ride the storm 
Beyond the danger points of harm. 

The perils from without are past; 

No ills portend from wave or blast, 

But in the vessel's motley crew 

A danger rises strange and new. 

A vengeful mutiny appears — 

The secret product of the years, 

And like a snake, in bosom warmed, 

Of one who never mortal harmed, 

It lifts its head with venomed sting, 

Mistaking President for King, 

And smites the one whose nursing breast 

Has given refuge, hope and rest. 

Today our Captain lieth low, 
Struck down by an assassin's blow, 
The sun is hid, the heavens weep, 
And sobbing winds our country sweep. 
Columbia mourns her Chieftain dead, 
Refusing to be comforted. 

Mckinley, Garfield, Lincoln, three — 
All martyr sons of liberty, 
Gifted with nature's majesty. 
117 



Great captains by the people's word, 
Who for love's sake unsheathed the sword. 
At life's high noon we saw them fall, 
And never was there darker pall. 
And loving them we hate the crime 
That blots the annals of our time. 

We bow before the triple shrine 
Of martyr Presidents, and twine 
Around their graves a garland rare 
Of sweetest flowers the earth can bear, 
All dewy with a nation's tears, 
The while we choke our sobs and tears. 
And standing by McKinley's bier 
We swear that every mutineer 
Hath forfeited the glorious tide, 
Whereon our gallant bark doth ride; 
And when the yard arm drops the knaves 
Committed to the cleansing waves, 
Daring the clouds that lie in wait — 
The heaven favored Ship of State, 
With compass dipping toward the light, 
Will burst the curtain of the night, 
With pilots faithful to the gleams, 
And seek ere long the port of dreams. 

HOME. 

What is home, my friend and brother? 

Is it not a place for those, 
Who in love of father, mother, 

Seek contentment and repose; 
Turning from a world where sinning, 

And where tumults never cease, 
To the scenes and spirits winning 

Unto ways of joy and peace? 

What is home? It is a haven, 
Happy refuge, safe retreat, 
118 



From the storms with power to raven, 

As upon your bark, they beat; 
There warm hands should grasp and greet you, 

With a benediction blest, 
Love with words of comfort meet you — 

Kiss your troubled soul to rest. 

WHY BUILD WE HERE? 

(Read at the Dedication of Carnegie Library.) 
Chanute, Kan., March 22, 1906. 

Why build we here these solid walls 
Upon foundations broad and deep? 

Why beautify these stately halls, 

And volumes gather heap on heap? 

Is it that we may homage pay 

To conjurers with mortal life, 
Told in the romance of a day — 

Of sin and shame, of lust and strife? 

Do not our open eyes behold 

Enough of man's ignoble part — 
Until the curdling blood runs cold, 

And we are faint and sick at heart? 

Is it not better far that here 

We build an altar to the name 
Of men to truth and justice dear, 

Of worthy and enduring fame? 

Men who look thru the casket's lid — 
This outer garb of flesh and blood, 

And see, from common vision hid, 
The spirit-jewel, breath of God? 

Men who have lifted high in air 

The standard of a nobler aim, 
And brought to souls in their despair 

A refuge from their guilt and shame? 

Rare souls that with unclouded eyes 
Clearly discern life's hidden springs, 
119 



And hear 'mid wails that rend the skies 
The heart's faint cry for better things? 

Here let us sit and think and dream, 

With heroes of the ages past, 
Whose thoughts were like the lightning's gleam, 

Whose songs were as the bugle's blast? 

In nights of darkness, days of gloom, 

As needle trembles to its pole, 
To ministering spirits we would come, 

For glints of sunlight on the soul. 

Here we would catch the burning lines 
That fell from Homer's rhythmic tongue, 

And hear the music of the pines, 
That breathes in Virgil's early song. 

Let Pope and Young and Dryden speak 

In cadences so sweet and low, 
That we will be constrained to seek 

A higher destiny to know. 

Here we can always safely feast 

On Lamb and Bacon a la mode, 
And trouble not ourselves at least 

That microbes may infest our blood. 

And Byron we can hail and greet, 
And tho his heart was sadly wrong, 

We'll kindly overlook his feet 
That limped in life but not in song. 

We hearken to the tread of one 

Who touched to music all life's strings; 

Swift Avon's bard, whose pen alone 

Could puppets make of popes and kings. 

We will not turn to hide our tears 
f Because of Ruskin's faulty style, 
Nor will we have to prick our ears 
To hear the thunders of Carlyle. 
120 



Here we would listen once again 

To Tennyson's seraphic voice, 
Singing a sweet or sad refrain; — 

With him would weep, with him rejoice. 

Echoing in the inner ear, 

We catch the grand Miltonian note, 
Lifting the soul beyond earth's sphere 

To realms unseen, near and remote. 

With men above the common herd, 
Who dare to lift a strong right hand 

For freedom, and with might of sword 
Win victory, here we would stand; 

And listen to their voices stern 

Against oppression's scourging rod, 

In sentences that breathe and burn, 
In their appeals to men and God. 

And as we bend above the page 

Where flame a Henry's words of fire, 

May we be moved with holy rage 
Against old wrongs in new attire. 

Our souls should be in sweet attune 
With Concord's rare philosopher, 

And peaceful as a day in June, 
When Lowell's words again we hear. 

Resounding in that alcove there 
Are heard the "voices of the night," 

From charming Longfellow's songs of cheer, 
That lead despairing souls to light. 

And there above that obscure door 
We list the croaking of the bird 

Whose only note of "Evermore," 
A soul to Stygian darkness spurred. 
121 



A host of voices in these halls, 

From Washington to Whittier, 
To nobler aims and duties calls, 

If we have ears intent to hear. 

And not alone of duty speak 

These poets, seers and orators, 
Of conflicts fierce, where warriors seek 

Immortal fame, and win — with scars. 

But men were they of royal birth, 

With eyes undimmed by earthly mist, 
With spirits nursed by Mother Earth, 

And lips by bees of Hybra kissed. 
They played eaves-dropping with the birds; 

They caught the music of the breeze; 
Their souls went out to feast, as herds, 

On splendors of the hills and seas. 

They knew by heart the sunset lore, 
The glories of the dawning day, 

The secrets nature has in store, 

For those whoe'er the price will pay. 

They saw the deep, unfathomed things 

Of ocean, mountain, valley, plain, 
And as their fingers touched the strings, 

All turned to music in the brain. 
From such as these who linger here, 

Invisible to touch and eye, 
Voiceless but to the spirit's ear, 

We come our thirst to satisfy. 
Here then let us repose and read 

The poem, essay, history, tale, 
And find in each and all the need 

Our sloth of soul to countervail. 
Here let us hold communion sweet 

With souls majestic, spirits pure, 
And mount like them on pinions fleet 

To thrones that evermore endure. 
122 



COLLEGE LIFE— THEN AND NOW. 
(Read at Baker University Commencement, 1917.) 

Awake, old Baker, "leave all meaner things" 
Where soon will rust the crowns of czars and kings. 
With eyes of memory view years of yore, 
When stalwart men the heat and burden bore 
Of days of tragedy and border strife, 
Entailing dangers to the nation's life. 
Here oligarchy made a final stand, 
And into flames the fires of serfdom fanned. 
With torch and gun they met the yeomen strong, 
Whose arm was lifted to avenge the wrong 
Of centuries against a captive race, 
Beneath the heel of bondage and disgrace. 

The leaders, Walker, Harvey, Brown and Lane, 
With men heroic following in their train, 
Whose songs of labor filled the dome of blue, 
Drove back the slaver and his motley crew. 
They held aloft the standard of the free, 
Till came the shouts of Freedom's jubilee. 

And when emancipation's goal was won, 
And pickets fired their last far signal gun, 
The men who long had held the bloody sword 
Now turned to pages of the eternal Word. 
With clearer eyes they saw the light of truth, 
The wealth of childhood, opulence of youth, 
And on the ground that warring feet had trod 
They builded temples to their unknown God, 
And where their brothers' blood formed crimson 

pools 
They founded universities and schools, 
That broken faith and loves they might restore, 
And learn the brutal arts of war no more. 

Anear this very spot of sacred ground, 
Ere echoes of Sharps' rifles ceased to sound, 
Without a blast of trumpets, chosen men, 
123 



Who saw the unseen thru their faith and ken, 
With love's young zeal munificent and pure, 
Laid here foundations that today endure. 

Say not these men were weak and ignorant, 

Here in this virgin wilderness to plant 

The seeds of truth and learning's fruitful grain, 

To fill with culture's flowers this arid plain. 

Here lies an acorn, robed in russet cloak — 

Long centuries pass — behold the mighty oak. 

A little corn sown by a faithful hand, 

Shall shake like Lebanon a distant strand. 

A little star, unseen by mortal eye, 

The cycle of a world will modify. 

A little rill will find the boundless sea; 

A single pen-stroke make the millions free. 

In light celestial nothing can be small; 

How great the work depends upon the call. 

These gospel pioneers whom some may scorn, 

Heard voices of the thousands yet unborn, 

Who now and in the near and future days 

Will crowd these halls, and walk in wisdom's ways. 

And learn of Him, the way, the life, the truth, 

The inspiration of the soul of youth. 

The castle stood in medieval times, 
For man's ambition, war's insatiate crimes, 
Where some usurping king or feudal lord 
Betrayed the innocent with gun and sword. 
Not so the castle wherein Baker first 
Looked out upon the world with darkness cursed 
Instead of war she taught the arts of peace, 
Proclaimed the truth that captive souls release 
From galling chains of ignorance and lust, 
The worth of love, the sovereignty of trust. 
While seeking art and science to impart, 
Her highest aim was culture of the heart, 
With poise and power and panoply of mind, 
And love, long suffering and kind, 
124 



That's not puffed up, and never seeks her own, 
Makes no alliance with the despot's throne. 

The Castle halls in all those early days, 

Resounded with the voice of prayer and praise, 

Here Davis, silver-tongued, with eagle eye, 

And with the eloquence of prophecy, 

The solidarity of man proclaimed, 

And saw, like John of old, the light that flamed 

From axe that lay at root of slavery's tree, 

And fan at threshing floor of Liberty. 

With students he had led into the light, 

He showed his faith in battling for the right. 

Here Horner, Weatherby and Denison, 
And Sweet and Quayle unfading laurels won; 
And then a Gobin and a Murlin came, 
Who kept the sacred altars all aflame; 
And last a master Mason's hand is felt, 
Who with untempered mortar never dealt. 
These men and others were the royal few, 
Who were to Baker's weal and honor true. 

But time would fail me to rehearse the names 
Of men so worthy of our loud acclaims, 
Who steered with ready hands, afore and aft, 
Thru troubled waters, Baker's fragile craft, 
And brought her safely to the port where gleams 
The starry light of her long cherished dreams. 

Here orators would often pour and mix 
The gospel stream in pools of politics; 
And Pomeroy, Parrott, Robinson and Lane 
Would guns of satire on each other train, 
And high harangue electrified the air, 
When tigers faced the lions in their lair; 
For be it known that in that elder day, 
Real giants met in gladiatorial fray. 
The Castle stands now like a sentinel 
To guard the memories we dare not tell, 
125 



Of loves and hates and joys of early years, 

The hopes and disappointments, smiles and tears, 

Of many who have passed the pearly gate, 

And for our tardy coming watch and wait. 

What strange and tender stories it could tell 

Of those who loved too wisely and too well ; 

Of seasons of despair, of thwarted schemes, 

And fading visions, evanescent dreams; 

Of morns and scenes that brightened but to blight, 

Of souls who sought to climb the mountain hight, 

Only to perish in a starless night. 

We fain would draw time's gloomy curtain o'er 

The tragedies of all those days of yore. 

Here students, lured by lore's alluring star, 

Not glory, signaled by the bat and bar, 

Gathered from shop and field afar and near, 

Their aim and end a serviceable career. 

We had no literary "put and call," 

No tennis, sports afield, or basket ball. 

Old shinny was our most exciting game, 

That broke our spines, or made our pedals lame; 

And cursed — or blessed — with meager revenues, 

No senior hats, or Shanghai heels on shoes. 

We doted on Greek roots and Latin nouns, 

Ignoring classic garb of hats and gowns. 

The horse we rode with dignity and grace, 
But riding "ponies" redskins took first place, 
Our colors were old Nature's green and blue, 
And over them grandiloquent we grew, 
But never tore the hair or hand-down clothes 
Of freshy fighters or sophomoric foes. 
We were not heroes in that early day, 
But hoodlum tendencies did not display. 

A money shortage was our longest suit; 
For exercise dug turnips and cube root. 
Upon the shadeless campus planted trees, 
126 



When not consorting with Demosthenes. 
Before our advent matches had been made. 
A host of students quickly learned the trade, 
Abetted by the turned-down coal oil lamp, 
Ignoring diamond ring and Guinea stamp. 
With Caesar many crossed the Rubicon, 
But nuptial triumphs were not always won, 
As one remembers with a smothered sigh, 
But as to details will not testify. 

We lived the simple life those days, 'tis true; 
Our trials many and our comforts few. 
No phone or wireless all the news to hurl 
On wire or air, and thanks, no central girl. 
Heart news, by ocular transmission sent, 
Sometimes than speech is far more eloquent. 
We put our surplus cash in college walls, 
Not automobiles, flowers and funerals. 
No Josephs we, with many colored shirts 
Nor co-eds with attenuated skirts. 
Instead they wore the bulging crinoline, 
To make us keep our distance, I opine. 
No combines then the price of food to boost; 
On planet orbits turkeys did not roost. 
Among the stars sheep were not known to hike, 
Nor did the helpful hen go on a strike. 
We ate our bread and milk with pewter spoon, 
And Bossy never bounded o'er the moon. 
Tho few and little in the hill were spuds, 
They were not popular as bosom studs. 
Appendicitis did not make us groan, 
Because big banquets were to us unknown. 
When hunger keen our central organs felt, 
A hole or two we buckled up the belt. 
When surfeited on dandelion greens, 
Boys went to war, and ate the army beans, 
Preferring bacon fried, themselves the cooks, 
To Lamb and Bacon neatly canned in books. 
127 



Pull down the curtain o'er the crucial past; 
The best of human decades is the last. 
The child amuses when he learns to crow; 
The pride of babe or college is to grow. 
While earliest upon the Kansas stage, 
Now Baker has just reached the athlete age. 
Tho drinking long the bitter cup of ruth, 
She has today the flush and fire of youth. 
The souls enduring tribulation long, 
Make sweetest music in triumphal song. 
Along the road of patient toil and stress, 
She has developed sinews of success. 
Nor has the past been uneventful days; 
Her trophies ornament life's higher ways. 
Her sons in pulpit, congress, college, court, 
In many an isle, in distant coast and port, 
Bring honors to their alma mater's name, 
And ever will exalt and guard her fame. 

Today on every hand we gladly see 
A change in college, town and scenery. 
A little city nestled in the hills, 
Mid Nature's beauty that the senses thrills, 
And modern architecture here and there, 
Now grace the ground, once desolate and bare. 
A charming campus here delights the eye, 
Where thrushes nest, and lovers lie — and sigh. 
The hand of man with touches of his art 
Give views of splendor that enrich the heart, 
And Lake Parmenter adding to the scene 
A glimpse that gladdens by its wavy sheen. 
These college buildings make the castle seem 
The ghostly relic of a fading dream. 
While every prospect pleases it imparts 
The air and promise of a school of arts. 
May Baker soon fulfill the primal pact, 
And be a university in fact. 
128 



More than equipment, more than college walls, 

Are men who answer magisterial calls 

To holy services in speech and song, 

Advance the state, drive back the hordes of wrong; 

Who see and seek the truth anear or far, 

And ever follow her benignant star; 

Reach down the ready hand in pits of sin, 

And help the weak the hights of faith to win; 

Lift up the feet of labor from the mire, 

With nobler purposes each heart inspire; 

Majestic temples of the soul to build, 

With dreams of beauty, love immortal, filled; 

The emblem raise, to every breeze unfurled, 

That pledges Liberty to all the world; 

With open ear and eye to hear and see 

The coming of the Christ that is to be. 

WOULD IT? 

Would the moth express dismay, 

And fear to die, 
If it knew another day, 

'Twould be a butterfly? 

Would the bulbs deep in the earth 

Cry in despair, 
If they knew their royal worth, 

As lilies white and rare? 

Would the wheat refuse to grow, 

Hid in the soil, 
If somehow it could but know 

'Twould feed the men of toil? 

How much less should mortals dread 

In graves to lie, 
Since they soon shall rise and tread 

The highways of the sky. 
129 



FATHER TIME. 

Old Father Time, one wintry day, 
Was seen to loiter on his way. 
His forelock, falling o'er his brow, 
Had long since turned as white as snow; 
His form was bent, his eye was dim, 
Decrepitude marked every limb, 
And on each feature of his face 
Millenniums had left their trace. 
His shoulders, once so strong and straight, 
Had grown unshapely neath the weight 
Of centuries as they slowly passed, 
Each seeming heavier than the last. 

And now as he was near the close 
Of one more hundred years of woes 
That marked his long and weary flight, 
He paused ere fell the shades of night, 
And summoned his large family 
Once more to gather round his knee. 
Miss Second was the first to come, 
So lithe of step and frolicsome; 
Miss Minute followed very soon, 
As gaily as a bird in June, 
And danced about in childish glee, 
Beneath the dear old family tree; 
Then came demurely Mr. Hour, 
With measured tread and conscious power; 
The next to appear was sweet Miss Day, 
Somewhat coquettish in her way, 
With heart now filled with joys, now fears, 
And face alternate smiles and tears. 
After Miss Day came Mr. Week, 
Who frequently was heard to speak 
Of irksome duties o'er and o'er, 
That made his life a dreadful bore. 
Miss Month came stealthily along 
To join the strange, unseemly throng, 
130 



And heart and voice in sweet attune, 

With face as beaming as the moon; 

And following came Mr. Year, 

Who seemed quite ready for his bier, 

For soon his journey was to end, 

And to oblivion he descend. 

Miss Century, the solemn maid, 

With stately form and features staid, 

And head erect, at last appeared, 

And by the group was hailed and cheered. 

The oldest child, Millennium, 

Of all the kin, was last to come, 

With tottering limbs and feeble pace, 

And long gray beard and wrinkled face. 

They gathered round their ancient sire, 
With eager ears and strong desire, 
To know what might be his behest, 
His slightest wish or last bequest. 
With pallid cheek and tear-dimmed eye, 
And voice that often breathed a sigh, 
So weak it could no echo make, 
Old Father Time to all thus spake: 

"With silent flight, on tireless wing, 
The years are swiftly passing by; 

Some make our souls mount up and sing, 
While others only make us sigh. 

The seasons come, the seasons go; 

We note the ever shifting scene 
Of springing grass and falling snow, 

And green and yellow leaves between. 

In confidence the farmer sows 

In fertile fields the precious grain, 

And labor, long and late, bestows, 
And reaps in joy, or reaps in pain. 

The miner delves, day after day, 

To find where hides the glittering ore; 
131 



In hopeless toil some waste away, 
Some gather gold in wondrous store. 

The toiler builds a little nest 

To shield his dear ones from the storm, 
And here some live, and love, and rest, 

While others flee at fire's alarm. 

The explorer bold the ocean stems, 
While storms in fury round him rave, 

And seeks new lands and rarest gems, 
And finds great wealth, or deep-sea grave. 

The soldier takes his ready gun 

To fight upon a foreign shore; 
Some come again, when victory's won, 

In triumph sweet, — some come no more. 

The statesman with his voice and pen 

Defends the honor of his state, 
Yet ghoulish miscreants from their den 

Gnash on him with the teeth of hate. 

The liberator breaks apart 

The shackles of a million slaves, 

And soon the life-blood from his heart 
The foul assassin's dagger laves. 

The patriot bravely floats aloft 

His country's flag thru war's red glare, 
And yet his name is loudly scoffed 

That still triumphal arches bear. 

The mother trains her fair-haired boy 

Until he reaches man's estate; 
She only lived to give him joy — 

He made her last days desolate. 

The father spends his treasure-store 
Upon a daughter passing fair; 

She turns a wanderer from his door; 
He dies alone, and in despair. 

132 



The ardent youth, with heart aflame, 
Puts forth his hand to grasp the prize; 

He faints and falls, with face in shame, 
As it recedes before his eyes. 

The maiden sings a spring-time rhyme, 
And gladness breathes in voice and word; 

But love seemed only meant to lime, 
And life had fled with autumn bird. 

Two children play beside the sea, 
The tide of life is running high; 

But while they gambol in wild glee 
The tide of death comes sweeping by. 

The young wife nestles in her breast, 
At morn, a baby sweet and fair; 

And o'er its cold form in its nest, 

At eve, she bends and moans in prayer. 

Unequal seems the law of life; 

The righteous suffers as the knave; 
The man of peace escapes not strife; 

The coward oft outranks the brave. 

Wealth robes one man in fine array, 
And liveried servants on him wait; 

Want casts another by the way, 

To starve, hard by the rich man's gate. 

Creation groans in penal pains, 

For wrongs triumphant, rights denied, 

For love betrayed, and truth in chains, 
For justice murdered, worth decried. 

Are there no compensations then? 

Will virtue never have reward? 
Is Fate the only god of men? 

Have good and bad one common Lord? 

To see the woes that I have seen, 

To hear man's cry and woman's plaint, 
133 



Makes life the vainest of the vain, 

The whole head sick, the whole heart faint. 

Before the earth could ever yield 

Its bounteous wealth of golden grain, 

'Twas crushed, dissolved, upheaved, congealed, 
Thru earthquake, fire, and frost, and rain. 

The seas are lashed in fury wild, 

Beneath the storm-king's awful breath, 

Or earth with plagues would be defiled, 
Surcharged with universal death. 

Rivers rush madly to the sea, 

The tempests smite the mountain's brow; 
The cyclone roots up town and tree, — 

Their use and end we may not know. 

Man lifts his murderous arm in wrath, 

And fights for glory or for gain, 
And desolation marks his path 

Of conquest, sickening heart and brain. 

Grim famine stalks abroad, and leads 

The pestilence with bony hand; 
There seems no eye to see man's needs, 

No God to know or understand. 

Yet I believe no sparrow falls, 

No worm is crushed beneath our feet, 

No life for succor ever calls, 

Whose echo heaven does not repeat. 

The past, the now, things near and far, 
Have all a common cause and trend ; 

The sea, the land, the earth, each star, 
All work to one far-reaching end. 

And over every element, 
Be it forever understood, 
134 



Without dismay or discontent, 

There ruleth One supremely good. 

There comes a day, near or remote, 

When wrong's oppressive reign shall cease: 

When earthly discords, every note. 
Shall change to harmonies of peace. 

When sin and death, the grave and hell, 

Shall sink into oblivion's sea, 
And angels sing, "All, all is well; 

Jehovah reigneth, man is free." 

Angels who sang the Savior's birth, 

As God the vista-gates unbars, 
Look on these coming scenes of earth 

From arching battlements of stars. 

The end of all things hasteneth, 

And soon shall reach earth's farthest shore, 
Borne on the wings of morning's breath 

The trumpet's sound, "Time is no more." 

I wait with patience my demise, 

When there shall be nor night nor sea, 

When tears no more shall dim men's eyes, 
And time becomes eternity." 

And with these words he said good bye 
With trembling hand and tearful eye. 
He asked them all to make a vow 
That on their work they would bestow 
More diligence than heretofore, 
Till he required their help no more. 
If all their duties they fulfill, 
They must be true and active still. 
Miss Second must not tick too slow, 
Miss Minute must not move too fast; 
And Mr. Hour must go just so, 
Or sweet Miss Day would soon lose cast; 
135 



And Mr. Week must walk along, 

And never lose a single day, 

Or prim Miss Month would soon go wrong, 

And peradventure lose her way; 

Then Mr. Year could never know 

When birds should nest and roses blow, 

Or when should come the harvest time, 

Or ring the merry Christmas chime, 

And wreck end all things temporal, 

And seasons into chaos fall. 

The centuries that come and go, 

Like Mississippi's rhythmic flow, 

Depend upon the hour and day, 

That neither haste, nor make delay. 

Therefore each child of Time should be 

Filled with one thought — Fidelity. 

There is a pathway for the sun, 

The planets in their orbits run, 

The stars move on, and vary not, 

In countless aeons one small jot, 

And worlds and systems, near and far, 

Speed on thru space without a jar, 

And sing together as they shine, 

Because they move by law divine. 

If man would think, and act, and move 

According to the law of love, 

And live in sweet conformity 

With God's just will and wise decree, 

Each heart would paradise regain, 

And heaven come down to earth again. 



136 



PEACE AND WAR 



FREEDOM AND FRATERNITY. 

O God of nations, God of war, 

Whose sword is never stained with blood, 

Thy work the hand of man may mar, 
And open gates for rapine's flood, 

And yet the crimson streams of strife 

Shall minister to larger life. 

As dust in balances is held 

Securely in the Almighty hand, 
So nations new or nations eld 

Are helpless as the shifting sand, 
Where savage winds blow evermore, 
And waves forever lash the shore. 

The empires come, the empires go, 
And kings and kaisers rise and fall; 

The strength of giants they may show, 
And millions to their standards call. 

Guns thundering their power shall rust, 

Their thrones decay and turn to dust. 

Tho clouds portentous hide the sky, 
And storms of battle spread dismay, 

Wise Lincoln, with prophetic eye, 
Beheld the dawning of the day, 

When man shall bask in Freedom's beams, 

Moored in the haven of his dreams. 

Lord, haste the age of light and law, 

Twin angels of democracy, 
Whose coming Washington foresaw 

Would teach the world Fraternity, 
That shall the rights of man defend, 
And bring a Peace that will not end. 
137 



LIBERTY. 

Who are the free? Not those who face the west^ 

And mourn the dying of the day. 
But rather they who with exulting breast, 

Watch for the dawn's first glimmering ray. 

It is not those who revel in the past, 
And cling to worn out code and creed, 

But they who seek to tread the highways vast 
Of higher thought and nobler deed. 

They rest not idly till their feet are caught 
In nets of doubt and circumstance, 

But emulate the work of those who fought 
Thru barriers of time and chance. 

They break the rusted chains that bind the soul 

In formalism's onerous rite, 
And conquer forces seeking to control, 

Or hinder its empyreal flight. 

The liberty of yesterday no more 

Can answer human needs today, 
Nor can the spirit be enriched on lore 

That has the leaven of decay. 

The smoldering embers of the ancient camps, 
Where Freedom built her altar fires, 

May serve to light our feebly burning lamps, 
In firmaments of our desires. 

While we may fail to keep her rapid pace, 

We must not loiter on the night, 
Nor lose the beckoning smile upon her face, 

That fain would guide our feet aright. 

We may not apprehend, much less exceed, 

The aspirations of her soul; 
For Freedom has no final word or deed — 

She always seeks a higher goal. 
138 



SONG OF THE ALLIES. 

United nations, heart and hand, 
In battle lines, defiant stand, 

And monarchs hold in scorn. 
Tho earth is trembling neath the car 
Of deadly strife, we see afar, 
O'er trench and field, the morning star 

Of Liberty reborn. 

In name of all humanities, 
Our banners under Orient skies, 

Forever are unfurled. 
These standard sheets will ever fly, 
Lead valiant men to dare and die, 
Until we see with faith's clear eye, 

A federated world. 

Upon the clouds that lower in gloom, 
We read in lurid signs the doom 

Of autocrat and czar. 
Vengeance is mine, I will repay 
The nations who will not obey, 
Says He who rules the land and sea, 

And speaks in peace and war. 

By love of truth that never dies, 
By justice that forever cries 

Against man's villainy, 
By all the slaves in bondage led, 
By all the armies of the dead, 
Whose blood by tyrants has been shed, 

The world shall yet be free. 

EXPEDIENCY. 

Thou imp of error, slur on truth, 

Deceiver of mankind, 
Thou layest gins for age and youth, 
To nobler instincts blind. 
139 



Thou base purloiner of the gold 
Of manhood's priceless dower, 

You leave the heart inert and cold, 
Bereft of moral power. 

You teach vain man the sails to trim 

To every wind that blows; 
And hearken to each howl or whim, 

That's made by friends or foes. 

The man who praises what he knows 

To be unworthy goals, 
Thru fear or purpose, overthrows 

The faith of weaker souls. 

The priest and preacher who declaim 

To please the common herd 
Re-voice no more the tongues of flame — 

Are faithless to their Lord. 

It matters not how high the post, 

How eloquent the speech, 
That statesman is to honor lost, 

Who sophisms dares to teach. 

When men or nations compromise 

In high affairs of state, 
And deal in subterfuge of lies 

They cast the dice of fate. 

Expediency, thou hast shorn 

The citizen and czar, 
Of honors long and meanly worn, 

And won the scourge of war. 

Thru thee men wearing dazzling crowns, 
Throw to the winds their trust, 

And speedily their world-power thrones 
Will crumble into dust. 
140 



AROUSE, AMERICA. 

We have not signaled mighty Mars, 
Nor, Brutus, can we blame our stars, 

That war invades our nation. 
We've heard the horrifying tales 
Of widows' woes and orphans' wails, 

And conflict's desolation. 

The peoples where kings tyrannize 

Have caught the gleam from western skies, 

And marvel at its glory; 
The Rubicon they now have crossed, 
To hells of direst holocaust, 

And fields laid waste and gory. 

And these our brothers o'er the seas, 
In battling for their liberties, 

Pour out their blood like water. 
In all the world the frowning skies 
Ne'er looked upon such sacrifice, 

Such scenes of human slaughter. 

Let czars and kaisers do their worst; 
They are of all the world accursed; 

To dust their thrones are falling. 
The warring nations of the earth, 
To throes of Liberty's new birth, 

The heavens now are calling. 

Can we sit by, with idle hands, 
Ignore humanity's demands, 

The cry for help unheeding? 
Can men and patriots close their ears, 
And listen only to their fears, 

While continents are bleeding? 

Arouse, America, proclaim 
To Freedom, in God's holy name, 
Your loyalty forever; 

141 



Your fealty to right and truth, 

Whatever be the loss or ruth, 

You must surrender never. 

THE TRAVESTY OF IT ALL. 

The Representative I am, 

Vicegerent of the King of heaven; 
The power mankind to bless or damn, 

To me divinely has been given. 

Ordained and foreordained am I 

To punish nations reprobate, 
Who dare to lift a hand on high, 

Against my will inviolate. 

The God of battles is with me; 

He leads my hosts to holy war; 
My forces, thru the air and sea, 

Will follow my imperial star. 

I daily lift my heart in prayer, 

Nor do I ever pray in vain; 
In answer, groans fill all the air, 

The dead by thousands fill the plain. 

What matters it that women sigh, 
In homes made desolate and lone? 

Why should the orphan children cry, 
When sanctity defends her own? 

Avaunt this farce of brotherhood; 

We are the chosen of the Lord; 
For men of common, foreign blood 

There is no logic but the sword. 

"Vengeance is mine, I will repay" — 
Thru me this wrath divine must come; 

May heaven hasten that glad day, 

When all my foes shall meet their doom. 

142 



I am the kaiser, I am he 

Who executeth all things well; 
The King of kings has given to me 

Alone the keys of death and hell. 

WHAT WILL THE ANSWER BE? 

The heat of the summer that burdens and kills, 
With grain in abundance our store-houses fills; 
The frosts of the winter that Nature despoil, 
Fertility's secrets impart to the soil; 
The elements round us with perils are rife, 
And yet they conserve and intensify life. 

The storms of the ocean that lift up the waves, 
As mounds o'er the millions of fathomless graves, 
Keep pure the blue waters where enemies lurk, 
That wider destruction and ruin might work; 
With seas never touched by the merciless blast, 
The earth were a charnel-house seething and vast. 

But what compensation has war in its train, 
That crimsons the land with the blood of the slain? 
It mows down the flower of mankind in its bloom, 
With swords of revenge and with cannon of doom; 
And countries disfigures with trenches and scars, 
With ashes thick sown by the red hand of Mars. 

Go, measure the depths of a mother's despair, 
And list to a father's importunate prayer; 
Compute, if you're able, the tears in the eyes 
Of orphans that mutely appeal to the skies, 
Then tell us your answer that day of all days, 
When God in his anger and vengeance repays? 

KANSAS TO THE ALLIES. 

The Sunflower greets the Fleur-de-lis 

With equal love the Rose, 
All fragrant with the Liberty 

The triple union shows. 

143 



Long years ago impetuous France 

Attempted to be free, 
And to the hilt she plunged her lance 

In heart of sovereignty. 

And as the years have come and gone 

Has feasted on the wine, 
The new wine of the kingdom won, 

From Freedom's clustering vine. 

The odor of the English Rose 

Is pleasant to the soul; 
To higher beauty in its blows, 

Some Burbank should cajole. 

Out here upon the Kansas plain, 

True yeomen led the van, 
That sought to break off every chain 

On limb and mind of man. 

The Sunflower makes its lowest bow 

To Rose and Fleur-de-lis, 
And prays that all the world may know 

The sweets of Liberty. 

"WAR IS HELL." 

Not below is the abyss, 
Where the fiends of darkness hiss; 
Not below the crater's mouth, 
Fiery as the plains in drouth, 
But upon the good, green earth 
Demons have their home and birth. 

Here it is they light their fires, 
Sordid passions, base desires, 
Jealousies that never die, 
Enmities that heaven defy, 
144 



Eyes agleam with evil deed, 

Hearts that love the spawn of greed. 

Seat and center of hell's throne 
Lie in war's impoverished zone, 
With the vermin in the trench, 
Vile diseases in the stench, 
Where is flashed the sword of lust, 
Where the Truth is ground to dust. 

Death and Hate have formed a pact, 
To descend a cataract, 
Into whirling pools of crime, 
Blackest, deepest of all time, 
With their gory flags unfurled, 
There to wreck and sink a world. 

Men in heaven's livery, 
Scorn and scourge and crucify, 
Love incarnate, with the thieves, 
While Hope stands apart and grieves, 
Still all down the centuries 
Faith exults in sacrifice. 

Truth her coming oft defers; 
Years, eternal years, are hers, 
Long she may abide in night, 
Seem to waver in the fight, 
Yet at last she wins the goal, 
When Love triumphs in the soul. 

Earth shall yet bloom as the rose, 
Ended be war's travail throes, 
Commerce cover lands and seas, 
Under flags of world-wide peace, 
Banished be the sword and rod, 
In the Fatherhood of God. 

145 



LECOMPTON. 

Twas under May's enchanting skies 
Brave men resolved to mobilize, 

And make a hostile rally; 
And under Walker, Lane and Brown, 
They swept up toward the little town, 

Reposing in the valley. 

And as they swiftly marched along, 
In every heart there was a song, 

Of liberty and labor. 
They spoke not, and there was no sound, 
Except their tread, o'er vale and mound, 

And clank of gun and saber. 

Allied with Freedom's holy cause, 
Inspired by heaven's righteous laws, 

And with no thought of pillage, 
They plant their cannon on the hill, 
And fear and consternation fill 

The people of the village. 

They tried to flee across the Kaw, 
And in amazement there they saw 

The Free state banners flying; 
And with despair in every heart, 
Discretion seemed a better part 

Than fighting or defying. 

Alarmed at yeomen filled with ire, 
All ready with the torch of fire, 

And "Betty" the defender, 
The villagers in cold affright, 
Lift high the coward's rag of white, 

In token of surrender. 

Along the line the orders run, 
For every man to ground his gun, 

And sheathe the sword of battle; 
146 



Obedient to authority, 
They limber the artillery, 

And muskets cease to rattle. 

But imprecations rent the air, 

In words that had no hint of prayer, 

Or savored of devotion, 
Because they trudged across the plain, 
Marched up the hill, then down again, 

As driftwood on the ocean. 

And back to Lawrence then they came, 
Disgruntled, travel-worn and lame, 

With utterances uprorious; 
Yet when prevailed their better sense, 
These words seemed filled with eloquence — 

Defeated, yet victorious. 

THE PALE HORSE. 

There's fire in his nostrils, disease in his breath, 
And under his hoofs are destruction and death. 
His rider is bearing a sword in his wrath, 
And leaves not a foe in his merciless path. 

Thru Belgium's borders he made a wild prance; 
His tracks you behold in the trenches of France, 
And loud is the wail of the mother and child, 
Heart rending the cry of the maiden defiled. 

In fury he rides on the wings of the wind, 
And leaves desolation and horror behind, 
And scenes of brutality sicken the sight, 
Where pestilence walks in the darkness of night. 

He leaps o'er the seas to Columbia's coast, 
And chains to his chariot an unnumbered host, 
The flower of our youth, and the brave of the brave, 
To lead them to victory — or to the grave. 

147 



Pale horse with your hoofs that are shodden with 

fire, 
And quivering main that has thundered your ire, 
Soon riderless into the gulf you will leap, 
Where engines of warfare lie, heap upon heap. 

THE WHITE MAN'S BURDEN. 

Southward the star of empire takes its way; 

No more its goal is in the west; 
And juggle with the future as we may, 
Its destiny is manifest. 

We cannot longer hold the hounds of war, 

Nor should we balk at sacrifice, 
When cold barbarities that we abhor 

Go on these years before our eyes. 

Shall we stand by with idle hands and guns. 
While Rapine such dire harvest reaps, 

And blood of brothers like a river runs, 
And Peace in sackcloth sits and weeps? 

A standard flies on western shores and seas; 

Columbia still leads the van, 
And myriad voices floating on the breeze, 

Proclaim the brotherhood of man. 

This standard bear beyond the Rio Grande, 
And may its progress know no pause, 

Till Liberty and Justice rule the land, 
And there fulfill their righteous laws. 

The plans of Providence none can defeat; 

The white man has his burden still; 
And ready be our hands and swift our feet, 

To work out Earth's and Heaven's will. 

148 



AWAKE, KANSAS. 

Kansas, home of spirits brave and true, 
Who raised the banner when the bugle blew, 
And following and falling sweetly rest, 
By all the nation blest. 

They loved the cause of human liberty, 
And freely died to make the bondmen free; 
They call on us to break the last strong chain 
Of the oppressor's reign. 

What boots it that we have abundant store, 
If men betray the children of the poor? 
With such forbears can we sit idly by, 
And hear the hungry cry? 

What profit are our harvest-fields of gold, 
Industrial arts, and commerce manifold, 
If, lacking wisdom, faith and hearts of oak, 
We break not every yoke? 

Awake, awake, ye men of noble sires, 
Keep brightly burning freedom's altar fires, 
Till souls in prison long can all go free, 
With songs of jubilee. 

THE FLAG. 

The glory of the states, 

The glory of the seas, 
We fling thy ample folds 

To every passing breeze. 
The orbs of yonder sky 

Outshine alone thy stars, 
The splendors of the eve 

Surpass alone thy bars. 

Red signalizes blood 
Of patriots of yore, 
149 



The blue celestial hights, 
With blessings rich in store; 

The white proclaims our cause 
Both human and divine; 

For nations yet enslaved 
Thy stars will ever shine. 

In conflicts of the past 

You ever led the van, 
For Justice in the earth, 

And Liberty to man. 
In battles for the right 

You never made retreat, 
And in the world's great war, 

Will never know defeat. 

Forever wave aloft, 

For Freedom's righteous cause, 
For heaven ordained rights, 

And heaven-given laws. 
And may in every land 

This banner be unfurled, 
Until it unifies. 

And federates the world. 

A VETERAN'S CAMP FIRE. 

All honor to the true and brave, 
Who nobly fought and nobly fell; 

Their lives' best years they freely gave, 
To save the land they loved so well. 

Today they come in numbers few, 
To tell the tales of Civil war; 

To that old flag they still are true, 
To every stripe, to every star. 
150 



They come to talk of days gone by, 
When hearts were fainting with despair; 

When war's red flame lit up the sky, 
And groans and curses filled the air. 

Again they see the battle's flash; 

Again they hear the cannon's roar; 
Again they hear the sabers crash, 

Again shout victory, o'er and o'er. 

They bear upon their wasting frames 
The bullet wound, the bayonet scar; 

But on the flag's blue field still flames, 
In purest light, each stately star. 

Forever wave thy silken bars, 

From rock-ribbed Maine to Golden Gate; 
May he who dares pluck out thy stars, 

Meet speedily the felon's fate. 

MONARCH OR MAN. 

By sufferance too long have stood 

Imperialistic thrones, 
Cemented by heroic blood, 

And built on human bones. 

Vast legions of courageous men 

Have borne the woe and pain 
Of gory field and prison pen, 

That lordly kings might reign. 

They answered many a bugle call 

To danger and disease, 
To nobly fight and bravely fall, 

That czars might live at ease. 
151 



We've reached the parting of the ways, 

Of monarch and of man; 
Democracy now wins our gaze, 

And Freedom leads the van. 

And kings and kaisers must go down, 

Before our work is done; 
No man should wear a jeweled crown, 

Unless thru honor won. 

The world, the whole world shall he free, 

And wars and tumults cease; 
All join in songs of Liberty, 

And Jubilees of Peace. 

THE MAN BEHIND THE PLOW. 

Just shout till you are wheezy hoarse, 

From morn till set of sun, 
About the man of nerve and force, 

Who stands behind the gun. 
There is another in these days, 

Who merits, I allow, 
An equal word of earnest praise — 

The man behind the plow. 

The soldier cannot live on hay, 

Or dandelion greens; 
He must have bread three times a day, 

And butter, beef and beans. 
If we would put the foe to rout, 

With submarine and scow, 
We never can succeed without 

The man behind the plow. 

The victory never can be won, 
By bomb or aeroplane, 

152 



By cannon ball or gatling gun, 

Or war ship on the main, 
Without the strength and health that glow, 

And mantle on the brow, 
Made possible by those who sow — 

The man behind the plow. 

Then if you are too old to fight, 

Too young to meet the foe, 
Just use the spade with all your might, 

Or grab a garden hoe. 
World liberty must now be won, 

By horse and hen and cow, 
By boy behind the ship and gun, 

By men behind the plow. 

"OUR FATHER." 

A German warrior on the Rhine, 
A Frenchman in the battle line, 
A Briton with the legion sign, 
Each used the prayer "Our Father." 

And then the German seized his gun, 
The Frenchman to his trench did run, 
The Briton would not be outdone, 
In fighting for "Our Father." 

And each one in his native tongue, 
The anthem of his home land sung, 
And line and trench with shoutings rung, 
In honor of "Our Father." 

All thru the day the shot and shell, 
On long battalions rained down hell, 
And who is saint, who infidel, 
One only knows — "Our Father." 

What better things can we expect, 
When christians form sect after sect, 
153 



And each crowd say, we are the elect, 
Of Him they call "Our Father." 

Each sect becomes a hostile camp, 
And members bear the Guinea stamp, 
And each would steal the other's lamp, 
Tho lighted by "Our Father." 

Each sets itself upon a perch, 
Would build a bigger, finer church, 
And leave the others in the lurch — 
Done in the name — "Our Father." 

How can the will of heaven be done, 
Till that petition of the Son 
We answer by becoming one — 
All children of "Our Father." 

Deluded people, no more blame, 
The men who light war's lurid flame, 
While you in act yourselves proclaim 
The devil as your father. 

ELIHU ROOT AT PETROGRAD. 

Thrice armed is he whose coat of mail 
Is Truth that makes man free. 

With faith enshielded none can fail, 
Who war for Liberty. 

"My words are spirit and are life," 
Proclaimed the patient Lord, 

More potent in the world-wide strife 
Than submarine or sword. 

Thus panoplied, mighty man, 

The raging Russian bear 
Was quickly pacified, and ran 

Into his forest lair. 

154 



There is no peace, there is no war, 
That Truth cannot forestall; 

And led by any other star, 
The state or church must fall. 

On troubled waters thou hast poured 

The oil of sentiment, 
With patriotic fervor stored, 

The foe of discontent. 

A nation where the people reign, 

So long by conflicts torn, 
Without revolt or travail pain, 

By thy help has been born. 

OUR PATRIOT FATHERS. 

patriot fathers, known of old; 
In face of foreign tyrants bold, 
No sacrifice did you withhold, 

In time of country's need; 
You met the foe on land and sea, 
And made the base oppressors flee, 
And gained our priceless liberty. 

Defeating royal greed. 

patriot fathers, loyal when 
Our country needed stalwart men, 
To scale the rampart, wade the fen, 

And march thru sleet and snow; 
You braved the river's mighty flood, 
Baptised the mountains with your blood, 
And as a living wall withstood 

A fearless brother foe. 

patriot fathers, brave and true, 
May God in us your faith renew, 
And make us strong to dare and do, 
In this our later day; 
155 



You lit the purifying fire, 

You saw the ancient wrong expire, 

In wars tumultuous and dire, 

When Freedom blazed the way. 



HAIL THE FLAG. 

We hail the flag, nor should we lag 
In ardor that becomes the free; 

War's awful scars have rent thy bars, 
But never dimmed thy sanctity. 

We hail the flag; — no alien rag 
Shall ever foul thy native air; 

Thy folds enshrine a light divine — 
That answers every hope and prayer. 

We hail thy bars and clustering stars 
That gleam on Liberty's domain; 

In fierce affrays of coming days, 
Thy prowess let no foe disdain. 

Thy flames of light have led the fight 
Against the hosts of tyranny; 

And no defeat, or base retreat, 

Hast thou endured on land or sea. 

Beneath thy stars and crimson bars 
Is refuge for the souls oppressed, 

Who hither come, and find a home, 
Where they may labor, love and rest. 

Oh glorious flag, on peak and crag, 
On plain or isle where man may be, 

Forever wave o'er patriots brave, 
Thou emblem of humanity. 
156 



KILLED IN THE PHILIPPINES. 
Captain D. S. Elliott. 

Thou hero of two bloody wars, 

We honor thee to day; 
The debt we owe thee for thy scars 

Would beggar us to pay. 

When Lincoln for brave soldiers plead 

To quell domestic foes, 
Upon rebellion's hydra head 

You dealt unerring blows. 

And when McKinley gave the word 

That Cuba must be free, 
Again you drew your ready sword 

For right and liberty. 

You fought not on fair Cuba's shore, 

Nor Santiago's plain, 
And yet "the white man's burden bore," 

Beyond the raging main. 

And there you met a fiercer foe, 
In barbarous land, and wild, 

A race untutored, brutal, low, 
"Half devil and half child." 

And there upon the battle plain, 
Your brave men by your side, 

You did immortal honors gain 
When 'neath the flag you died. 

Whether in common walks of life, 

Or in the ranks to fight, 
Thou wast a hero in the strife, 

A champion for the right. 
157 



Ah! tears may well suffuse our eyes, 

As here today we meet; 
Such honor for such sacrifice 

Is weak and incomplete. 

No more within these sacred walls 
We'll hear in speech and song 

Thy voice in sweet, persuasive calls 
To battle 'gainst the wrong. 

Let flowers sweet and flowers rare 

In beauty crown thy clay; 
Thy spirit soars mid scenes more fair, 

Where reigns eternal day. 

Thou wife that gavest of thy heart 

Its richest treasure-store, 
Could woman do a nobler part? 

Could country ask for more? 

How many weary, waiting days 
Thy loving heart has known; 

In prayer for thee our hearts we raise; 
Father, care for thine own! 

Thou worthy sons of worthy sire, 

As valorous deeds attest, 
In your hearts burn heroic fire, 

As in thy father's breast. 

True servant of thy Country's God, 
Thou friend of men forlorn, 

Sweet be thy rest beneath the sod 
Till Resurrection's morn. 

158 



EARLY DAYS IN KANSAS. 
Read at Old Settlers' Reunion, Chanute. 

The heroes of the early days 

Must not be damned with fulsome praise. 

They should have panegyric strong, 

In vivid story, thrilling song. 

For be it known to all, that then 

The times, conditions, called for men; 

Men panoplied, and brave to bear 

Their part in tumults, work or war. 

Men who were born to overcome, 

To speed the plow, follow the drum; 

To build the bulwarks of the free, 

In bonds of human masonry; 

'Twas their prerogative to teach 

The freedom of the press and speech; 

To banish Nature's night of gloom, 

And make the deserts bud and bloom; 

To know no nation can endure, 

Unguarded by a ballot pure; 

To turn the feet of man and child 

To ways with sirens undef iled ; 

To follow with devotion sweet 

The flag that never knew defeat; 

To break the chains of the oppressed, 

And build an empire in the west; 

Where all a competence might gain, 

And right, not might, should rule and reign. 

These are the goals our fathers sought, 
For which they suffered, prayed and wrought. 
They builded temples to their God, 
While reaping from the virgin sod ; 
Failed not, in founding shop and mill, 
To plant the schoolhouse on the hill; 
Instead of forts and arsenals, 
Put brawn and brain in college walls. 
159 



Their greed did not contaminate 
The ground work of a mighty state. 
A state that on its every page, 
Protects the worker in his wage; 
With diligence conserves man's good, 
Down even to his drink and food; 
Where time and chance present to poor, 
As well as rich, an open door; 
A state that Liberty unbars 
To constellations of the stars. 

How shall we honor fathers bold, 
Who hated tinsel, chose the gold, 
The currency of all the earth, 
And symbol of man's moral worth? 
Shall we not emulate their deeds, 
Incarnate in our lives their creeds, 
And here make pledges to defend 
Their faith and honor to the end? 
O sires, faithful, tried and true, 
"Ye builded better than ye knew." 
Struck hierarch of slavery dumb, 
And gave a staggering blow to rum. 
You made it possible for men, 
Thru almost superhuman ken, 
A noble commonwealth to found, 
Whose praises thru the world resound. 
And show to nations of the earth 
That Freedom here has had re-birth. 
That now must cease the rule of caste, 
The curse of eras of the past; 
That man's a man wherever found, 
Ill-favored, prosperous or renowned; 
That opportunity awaits, 
The high and low, with unbarred gates. 

No man is ever wholly free, 
Till he can grasp the prophecy, 
160 



That all of every race and age 
Must share a common heritage; 
That he is wise who loves the state, 
And keeps its laws inviolate; 
That he is great who lives the truth, 
Whatever be the cost in ruth; 
That streams of life must pulsate true, 
Not whether blood be red or blue; 
That heaven loves the soul of man, 
Upon a throne, or under ban; 
That all above, or neath the sod, 
Are children of our Father — God. 



CECIL A. ROWAN. 

The first young man of Chanute to be killed in 
battle in France. Read at a memorial service Nov. 
27, 1917. 

He left his home, his native land, 

Left all his youthful heart held dear, 

Before the archer, Death, to stand, 
As Liberty's brave volunteer. 

He went, not as men did of old, 

For glory on a foreign shore, 
Nor in the quest of sordid gold, 

Or ancient wonders to explore. 

He went in youth's imperial prime, 
To lands beneath the Kaiser's ban, 

To help avenge the world-long crime — 
Man's inhumanity to man. 

He went because he heard the cry, 

Reverberating o'er the sea, 
Of heroes in the tragedy 

Of deadly conflict to be free. 
161 



He raised his arm, and bared his breast, 
Poured out his blood on alien soil, 

That men and nations might be blest 
With just reward for honest toil. 

It was his glory first to fall, 
Of all our boys in battle line, 

Who heard our country's urgent call, 
To hold aloft your flag and mine. 

Above his grave we may not weep, 
Nor honor him with leaves of bay, 

But in our heart of hearts will keep 
His name till Freedom's latest day. 

Tho dead his voice comes o'er the seas, 
Nor waves can drown it as they roll ; 

Tear down the thrones of dynasties; 
Instead build temples for the soul. 

Drive out the hydra giant Greed, 
That ravages the world with war; 

Let Justice rule in word and deed, 
And follow her ascending star. 

Before the heavens with victory ring, 

Columbia must lead the van, 
And prove to kaiser, zcar and king, 

That this old earth was made for man. 

That law and liberty must be 

The guide and guard of age and youth, 
Achieving world democracy, 

Forever more enthroning truth. 



162 



PERSONAL 



PROF. THURLOW LIEURANCE. 

His magic fingers touch the keys, 
And music quivers on the breeze, 

The higher senses thrilling; 
Now rising as an eagle's flight, 
Now falling like the dew at night, 

In buttercups distilling. 

Who gave his hand the art of arts, 
This incantation over hearts, 

As on the keys it dances; 
Endowment marvelous, divine, 
Like that possessed by Muses nine, 

That cheers, exalts, entrances. 

He stands before his royal band, 
The movement of his lifted hand, 

Like wind upon the ocean, 
Makes waves seraphic rise and fall, 
Now thunder, now a madrigal — 

The poetry of motion. 

Oh gifted man, we honor thee, 
Thou art the soul of melody; 

To thee the boon is given, 
To leave ajar the pearly gate, 
That thru it may reverberate 

The harmonies of heaven. 

GEORGE W. MARTIN. 
On his Seventy-Second Birthday. 
A Kansan with an honored name, 

In public trust, in social life; 
He warred for justice, not for fame, 
And compromised not in the strife. 
163 



The foe inveterate of sham, 
A lover of the true and good, 

In every fight erect and calm, 
Unflinchingly foursquare he stood. 

He courted not the powers that be, 
And yielded not to lure of gold; 

Unhandicapped by pledge or fee, 

His poise of conscience made him bold. 

His peers denied to him the place, 
Dispensed to citizens less great; 

This record time cannot efface — 
He helped to build a mighty state. 

Upon your stainless brow there lies 

A crown grown lustrous with the years; 

For you and me the day soon dies; 
The future hath for us no fears. 

FLAGMAN JOHN AXCELL. 

With feet alert, and eye intent, 
A score and five years has he spent 

Anear the railway crossing, 
Where flows a stream of human life, 
The son, the daughter, husband, wife, 

His flag in warning tossing. 

Tho in his coach a prince may pass, 
Or should it be a toddling lass, 

Each life is in his keeping; 
No engine sounds a note in vain, 
No rumbling of a coming train, 

E'er found him idling, sleeping. 

The blizzard may around him blow, 
And pelt him with its sleet and snow, 
It only wakes his scorning; 
164 



Nor cares he for the summer's heat, 
But ever ready on his beat, 
He waves his flag in warning. 

How many mothers now possess 
A loved one, thru his faithfulness, 

Secure, unmarred its beauty; 
For not one life was ever lost, 
Nor any beast has paid the cost 

Of his neglect of duty. 

We laud the one who dries the tear, 
And gives the comfort of good cheer, 

When clouds are dark above us; 
How much more praise should we bestow 
Upon the man who saves from woe 

The hearts that dearly love us. 

Wait not until this flagman true 
Is lying neath the chilly dew, 

To give him royal pleasure; 
With kindly words and flowers rare, 
Give now a blessing and a prayer, 

And honor in full measure. 

NEWTON N. RIDDELL. 

Oh marvelous man, whence came this ken, 
This insight into realms unknown; 

This knowledge of the hearts of men; 
This wisdom without bar or zone 

Hast thou been caught on eagle's wings, 
And carried to empyreal bights, 

Where star to star eternal sings, 

And heard the music of their flights? 

And hast thou gazed with rapturous eye 
On mountains rising peak on peak, 

And heard the Olympian gods on high 
In thunder tones thru canyons speak? 
165 



Hast thou been privileged to lift 

The veil that hides from mortal sight, 

And seen new worlds before thee shift 
In splendors of diviner light? 

Perhaps upon some stormtossed deep, 
As billows high didst o'er thee roll, 

Thou didst awaken from its sleep 
The Christ-life in the fearful soul. 

Or mayhap thou hast leaned thy head, 
And heard, upon the Savior's breast, 

In whisper things before unsaid, 
Or only to pure hearts confessed. 

We sordid souls but dimly know 

What depths or nights thy feet have trod, 
What visions in thy spirit glow 

Of earth and angels, men and God. 

"INASMUCH" 

To Judge Benj. B. Lindsey of Denver, Colo. 
In that day of all the ages, 

When the hosts of every land, 
Rich and poor, and fools and sages, 

At the great assize shall stand, 
Then shall come the word of terror, 

"Inasmuch" — divine decree — 
Not because of credent error, 

But, "Ye did it not to me." 

Who is he then, man immortal, 

That shall have an entrance given, 
Thru the ever open portal, 

To the recompense of heaven? 
Who shall eat the fruits forever 

Of the trees of that abode, 
And shall drink of that blest river, 

Flowing from the throne of God? 
166 



Hast thou comfort true imparted 

To the desolate and ill; 
Visited the broken-hearted 

In the prisons dank and chill, 
Banishing earth's woe and blindness? 

Then the King shall say to thee 
"Inasmuch" — God-like kindness — 

"As ye did it unto me." 

If the man who in the prison 

Saw the lowly Nazarene, 
Served his age so souls have risen 

Victors over crime and sin, 
How much more shall the great Teacher 

Give the welcome full and free — 
"Inasmuch," judge or preacher — 

"As ye did it unto me." 

OLIVIA. 

Olivia the charmer, 
Thou lovely, loving, little sprite, 
What tenderness is in the light 
Of eyes whose limner was the Night — 

May nothing ever harm her. 

Olivia the charmer, 
She is a youthful rogue — a thief; 
She stole my heart, 'tis past belief; 
Yet say I in my loss and grief 

May nothing ever harm her. 

Olivia the charmer, 
May sorrow's overshadowing frown 
On her fair brow ne'er settle down, 
Where now rests innocency's crown — 

May nothing ever harm her. 

Olivia the charmer, 
May she from life's cup drink the sweet, 
And troubles fly on pinions fleet, 
Before the pathway of her feet — 

May nothing ever harm her. 
167 



THIRTY-FIVE. 
To C. S. 

It is the summer time of life, 

And on the balmy air 
The perfume of a thousand flowers 

Is floating everywhere. 

The trees have donned their garb of green, 

And all the long, long day, 
The songsters of the forest give 

Full many a cheerful lay. 

With all the charms the season brings 

There cometh carking care; 
And many are the burdens now 

The manly heart must bear. 

The sowing time has long since passed, 

And weeds begin to grow, 
And call for toil from early morn 

Till evening's ruddy glow. 

Ere long will come the harvest time 

Upon us unawares; 
Then blessed is life's autumn days 

A golden fruitage bears. 

TWO SCORE YEARS. 
ToR. 

Four decades gone. A tender age 

The first ten years when seeds are sown, 

And twigs are bent, a clean, white page 
Records impressions heaven will own. 

From ten to twenty — training days 

For hand and foot, and head and heart; 

Blest be the youth who gladly pays 
The price that Love demands of Art. 
168 



The next stage brings a strenuous life; 

The fire of youth has lost its flare; 
The brow and breast are mailed for strife, 

The strong arm nerved to do and dare. 

The thirtieth mile-stone, and then, 
If ever, in the path of Right, 

Beholding with a godlike ken 

The goal in Kingdom fair of Light. 

May promised stages that remain 

Be havens on a quiet sea, 
To anchor briefly ere you gain 

The Port of Peace — Eternity. 

TWO SCORE AND TEN. 
To C. J. 

The sun has turned his burning face 

Adown the ethereal blue, 
And lights and shadows interlace, 

And swiftly darting thru 
The leafy grove each other chase. 

Slowly has passed the summer swoon, 
With heat and dust and moil ; 

To weary hearts 'tis none too soon 
To have relaxed the toil 

That burdened hands in life's high noon. 

The floating clouds begin to blush 

With tints of red and gold, 
And thru the air, amid the hush 

That settles o'er the wold, 
There comes the song of distant thrush. 

The trees are burdened with their weight 

Of early autumn fruit, 
And tho they proudly stand elate, 

Because of storm-fixed root, 
The branches bend in rich estate. 
169 



The sun will never shine again, 

As thru the morning hours; 
The dew of youth has turned to rain, 

And yet between the showers 
He doth his old-time strength regain. 

The shadow on the dial falls 
With ever lengthening shade, 

And often circumstance recalls 
The scenes on memory made, 

Like pictures on a darkened wall. 

Delay thy going down, oh Sun, 

Give radiance as of yore, 
When youth sweet love and honors won; 

But Joshua speaks no more 
Upon the mount of Gibeon. 

SIXTY YEARS. 
To Mary. 

Just sixty years 

Of smiles and tears, 
Of mingled rue and roses; 

And yet obedient still 

To Him whose sovereign will 
The tasks of life imposes. 

Full sixty years 

Of hopes and fears, 
With never scales a-quiver, 

Since melodies of cheer 

Outweigh the dirges drear — 
Thanks to the mercy Giver. 

These sixty years 

Her love endears 
The name of wife and mother, 

To hearts whose loyalty 

Yield not a sanctity 
Above it to another. 

170 



As passed the years 

In many spheres 
She conquered in the trial 

Of worth of heart and brain. 

And stood the test and strain 
Of toil and self-denial. 

After these years 

Her soul appears 
In tune with earth's immortals; 

May heaven long delay 

The coming of the day 
When she shall pass its portals. 

TO A. A. B. CAVANESS, MY BKOTHER 
On His 77th Birthday. 

You answered country's imperious call; 

Beneath her banner enrolled your name, 
As her defender to stand or fall, 

In field or forest, mid smoke and flame; 
And till her triumph was made complete, 
You heard no bugle ring out retreat. 

Escaping missies unseen of death, 

It left a heritage drear of pain, 
That life has menaced with every breath, 

With woes unmerciful in their train ; 
And in this conflict of hopes and fears, 
The strife has deepened with coming years. 

And yet you glory in ways of truth, 
In things that touch the responsive heart; 

In aspirations that brightened youth, 
In dreams of your very soul a part; 

Nor will these visions of beauty die, 

Till sinks life's star in the western sky. 
171 



TO CHARLES W. DeWOLFE. 
Eightieth Birthday. 

Eighty years. 'Twas Mother Earth 
Gave you prestige at your birth, 
Ministered to flesh and blood, 
Kept red currents at full flood, 
Made the paths that you have trod 
Highways leading up to God. 

Eighty years. The friend of youth, 
Teaching them immortal Truth, 
Witness of the Life, the Way; 
Seeking those who go astray; 
When you lay your burdens down, 
Stars of joy will be your crown. 

Eighty years. The day declines, 
Evening sunbeams gild the pines; 
Matters not how green the leaf, 
Autumn tinges it with grief; 
Be it leaf or bird or man, 
All share in Redemption's plan. 

Eighty years. The days seem long, 
Yet, made sweet by bursts of song, 
In the hall and in the home, 
Neath the sanctuary's dome, 
You they bear, on wings of light, 
To the borderland of night. 

Eighty years. Shall not frail man, 
Tho his life be but a span, 
With a soul, wherein impearled, 
Shines the Love that saves a world, 
When he drifts beyond the bar, 
Outlive yonder violet star? 
172 



Eighty years. A grain of sand, 
On Time's endless reach of strand, 
Overleaping zone on zone, 
Yet God careth for his own. 
Friend of mine, where'er we roam, 
We will meet, some day, "At Home." 

TO REV. J. R. McFADDEN. 

At the Close of His Pastorate in Chanute, March, 

1914. 

Not ships upon the ocean 

Are we, that pass at night, 
Exchanging words of greeting, 

Then passing out of sight. 

We meet, we hold communion; 

Our love becomes a flame; 
We part — perhaps forever, 

No more to be the same. 

The stronger one has given 

Unto the weaker strength, 
Who manifests the fruitage 

Of nobler life at length. 

The man of saintly wisdom, 

Like roses fully blown, 
Imparts a secret unction 

To hearts before unknown. 

You came to give a message, 

To do the Master's will, 
And trusting the assurance 

His promise to fulfill. 

You taught us not the letter 

So much as things of life; 
And made us better fitted 

For every moral strife. 
173 



Your torch has grown no dimmer, 

In giving us the light; 
Nor is your day less glorious 

For banishing our night. 

TO MR. AND MRS. M. P. HELMICK. 
On Their Wedding Day, April 12, 1905. 

Dame Nature, come from your long sleep, 

Awaken from your dreams 
Of woodlands where the fairies keep 

Their revels by the streams, 
Embowered in the sun-lit banks — 

Wake, don your robes, arise; 
Lift up your voice in praise and thanks, 

And open wide your eyes. 

The bobolink is on the wing, 

The robin calls his mate; 
And soon the mocking bird will sing, 

And hearts intoxicate; 
The hill-tops clap their hands with joy 

To vales that lie between, 
Where flowers all their arts employ 

To beautify the scene. 

New life, new love, new hope, new power 

With each new day are born; 
If night brings tears to leaf or flower, 

They vanish with the morn; 
With beauty everywhere beneath, 

And wonders great above, 
It is a joy to live and breathe — 

An ecstasy to love. 

Today two souls in sweet a-tune 

To Nature's melodies 
Are vibrant with the mystic rune 

Of love's rare minstrelsies; 
174 



'Tis heaven only that can know 

A music more divine 
Than has its vernal overflow 

In hearts before this shrine. 

TO MR. AND MRS. D. M. KENNEDY. 
Twenty-fifth Wedding Anniversary, Oct. 1, 1908. 

Twenty-five flying cycles of years, 
With tumults of sorrow and mirth, 
And seasons of plenty and dearth, 

Have vanished like lights on the meres, 
And left of their journey no trace 
But wandering paths on the face. 

Twenty-five of the seasons whose charm 
Of fragrance and beauty of flower, 
With subtle and marvelous power, 

Was rarely dispelled by alarm; 

Life's pleasures disburdened our pain, 
And sunshine came after the rain. 

Twenty-five toiling summers in flight, 
Thru mornings and evenings aglow 
With splendors that Nature bestow. 

And minglings of shadow and light, 
Transforming the clouds as they whirl 
Above us to chariots of pearl. 

Twenty-five hazy autumns whose gold 
In fruitage of orchard and field, 
And tintings the forests revealed, 

Covered all with a glory untold; 
The spirit with love overflowed 
For blessings that heaven bestowed. 

Twenty-five barren winters and sear, 
With stories retold of the birth 
175 



Of Him who brings peace to the earth, 
And greetings of holiday cheer, 
Neath the sanctuary's high dome, 
Or round sacred altars of home. 

And what have these flying years brought 

To hand and to home and to heart? 

Have they ministered only to art, 
Or things by the worldly-wise sought? 

The guerdon is spiritual wealth; 

The talisman real soul health. 

THE FLYING YEARS. 
To My Brother. 

The years, the years, the flying years, 
Since we were struggling boys together, 

Made sacred by our toils and tears, 
In dismal or delightful weather. 

We felt the pinch of poverty, 

Its pain and penalty ignoring; 
And battled like a ship at sea, 

Its Ruler trusting and imploring. 

For early we were taught to hold 
A faith supreme in One above us, 

By those whose worth transcended gold 
Who lived to bless us and to love us. 

'Twas yours our country to defend, 
In storm and stress of battles gory; 

A life of pain its dividend, 

That far exceeds the factor — glory. 

'Twas mine to guard the humble nest, 
That sheltered sisters two and mother; 

While father also bared his breast, 
In conflicts dire, with you, my brother. 

176 



We may be little known to fame; 

We purposed not to court or shun her; 
And yet we trust each has a name, 

That has no stigma of dishonor. 

Ten souls were in the family bond, 
That troubles dark could never sever; 

While seven are gone to realms beyond, 
And wait for us beside the river. 

We know not when the call may come, — 
A month, a year hence, or tomorrow; 

May we approach the silent tomb, 
With Hope, unshaded by a sorrow. 

THEODORE ROOSEVELT. 

Tho city born and bred he early sought 
Communion with the woods, where winds of heaven 
Gave Nature's thrill and passion to his blood, 
And yielded gifts divine to heart and brain. 
His garments smell of spruce and pine, whose grace 
And strength have been transfused to face and form. 
Of mountains towering o'er the clouds his eye 
From sun and star hath garnered light, and glows 
With anger on the evil deeds of men, 
And flashes into flame against the wrong. 

No idle dream of human betterment 
In languid fancy floats to nothingness 
In the strong currents of his charted life. 
Thrilled with a purpose pure his vision hangs 
In the mid-heaven, like a new-flung world 
In nebula, assuming shape, until 
The rockgirt land appears where man may stand 
And battle with the untamed elements, 
Transforming them to servants of his will, 
And rear the structure of a loftier state. 
177 



Lover and builder of a peace whose years 
Are rhythmical with labor's chime and song; 
Deep in the pure affections of the home 
And ministries of love, the island's cry 
Aroused his spirit like a bugle blast, 
And when the deep was calling unto deep, 
He sprang to battle for the weak, and led 
His riders from the wilds — a Nemesis 
Avenging centuries of grievous rule — 
And scaled the rugged San Juan hights — to fame. 

The saber sleeps. Its wielder battles still 

For civic honor and for honest speech ; 

Sharper than sword his pen for justice wars, 

Louder than guns his words for righteousness 

That glorifies a nation. For to him 

Truth is the angel of the covenant, 

Whose spreading wings o'ershade the ark that 

holds 
The charter of our country's liberties, 
Writ with the blood of patriotic sires. 

Like wise men guided by the orb divine, 
So thou, led by thy luminant twin stars — 
Integrity of heart and nobleness 
Of aim, the multitude with eyes on thee 
Inspire to strenuous deeds that help the world; 
Give them thy fire to burn their baser selves, 
And all that hinders fealty to right. 
Toward that anear or ultimate event, 
The goal God set for us upon the earth, 
Guide thou the nation in its onward course; 
For kingdoms old, of clay and iron and brass, 
Must crumble neath the tread of Liberty, 
Of righteous law, wrought in the light of Love, 
And on their ruins rise a fabric fair, 
That grows in beauty with the circling years. 
178 



TO PROF. ARTHUR P. ALLEN. 
Eighty-fifth Birthday. 

Five and eighty fleeting years — 
Hopes triumphant over fears; 
Smiles exceeding far the tears; 
Battles lost, and battles won, 
With each day's descending sun. 

Five and eighty strenuous years — 
In the temple each one rears, 
Some defect, perchance, appears; 
Still unmoved by tempest's shock 
Stands thy house built on the Rock. 

Five and eighty beauteous years — 
This it is exalts and cheers, 
And that heart to heart endears; 
Faith and Hope and Love are thine, 
Heaven's gifts that in thee shine. 

Five and* eighty changeful years — 
Many of thy loved compeers 
Have been laid upon their biers. 
Now at yonder pearly gate 
Patiently they watch and wait. 

Five and eighty hastening years — 
May the angel charioteers 
Busy be in upper spheres, 
And their visit long delay, 
Hence to bear thy soul away. 
179 



TWO YEARS LATER. 

The evening splendor, 

Rose-hued and tender, 
Is calling you to rest; 

May Times cold finger, 

In mercy linger, 
Before it chills your breast. 

You're eighty-seven, 
And ripe for heaven, 

And yet you must not go; 
We need your smiling, 
And sweet beguiling, 

Along this vale of woe. 

Those over yonder 
Have all the wonder, 

The rapture and the song; 
We have the crying, 
The endless sighing, 

The discord and the wrong. 

Your life of beauty 

Inspires to duty, 
And wins our highest praise; 

May God befriend us, 

Your presence lend us, 
For many joyous days. 



180 



TO WALT MASON. 

Was there ever combination 
Of keen satire and good sense, 

That could bring to flagellation 
All the highbrows of pretense, 

Like you give the public daily, 

In your poem-prose shillaleh? 

There is nothing in the heaven, 
There is nothing in the earth, 

That your pen does not enliven 
With your versatilic mirth; 

Banishing our gloomy troubles, 

Puncturing life's glittering bubbles. 

How you strip the gaudy ladies 

Of their fads and freaks and frills; 

Give deluded young men Hades, 
Who are on the pace that kills; 

Long will live your name in story, 

Brilliant be your bays of glory. 

Do not let your inkhorn moulder, 
Never give your muse a rest; 

Hit the fools right from the shoulder, 
Knock them silly, galley -west; 

Send them by the wireless postboy 

Higher than the kite of Gilroy. 

Tell the truth, and shame the devil, 

Give all vanities their due; 
Tear the mask from face of evil — 

What few preachers dare to do ; 
While the door the foolish bang at, 
You will have a harp to twang at. 
181 



MRS. ELIZABETH RUDOLPH SWALLOW. 
Eighty-fourth Birthday, 1913. 

The light that girds my way-worn feet, 
Tho dimmer grown, is just as sweet 
As when the spring-time's genial rays 
Gave prophecy of summer days; 
The inner light shines more and more, 
As I draw near four score and four. 

Upon my cheek no longer glows, 
As in my youth, the ruddy rose, 
Yet in the hearts of dear ones bloom 
The flowers of love whose rich perfume 
Gives fragrance never known before, 
As I draw near four score and four. 

My hand is shriveled, thin and brown, 

And all its comeliness is gone, 

Yet friendship's grasp I feel and know, 

As in the days of long ago; 

It deeper thrills me o'er and o'er, 

As I draw near four score and four. 

Tho dullness steals upon my ear, 
I catch the tread of angels near, 
And heavenly voices, as they call, 
Upon my senses faintly fall; 
At times I hear a muffled oar, 
As I draw near four score and four. 

Tho I may linger days or years, 
For me the future has no fears; 
He who has kept me in the past 
Will still be with me when the last 
Low sun declines to rise no more — 
Sometime beyond four score and four. 
182 



THE VISIT. 
To Mr. and Mrs. Jacob L. Loose, Kansas City, Mo. 

There came a day, in blooming May, 

Inspiring, clear, serene, 
When friendship should renew her sway, 

In art-enriched demense. 

I went, we met, no alphabet 

Enables me to phrase 
The memories that linger yet 

Of those red-letter days. 

The charming grace, the form and face, 

Of well remembered years, 
Reveal to me the pleasing trace 

Of smiles, but not of tears. 

Some people roam afar from home 

To while away the time; 
You bring across the billowy foam 

Rare gifts from every clime. 

You've seen the temples near and far, 
Where spires hurl back the sun, 

And trodden fields made red by war, 
Where kings have lost and won. 

The long-famed Rubicon you've crossed, 

The Tiber swift as well, 
And in Sahara sands been lost, 

Where simoons always dwell. 

YouVe visited Pagoda shrines, 

In ancient China's walls, 
And heard the singing of the pines, 

Along her waterfalls. 

The treasuries of centuries, 

The curios of lands, 
Beyond the deserts and the seas, 

Are gathered by your hands. 
183 



In silent speech they seem to teach 

The secrets of the heart, 
That no race lies beyond the reach 

Of blandishments of art. 

The gongs and bells, whose ringing tells 

Of many a heathen shrine, 
Are pledges that in all men dwells 

The messenger divine. 

Where oceans roll, from pole to pole, 
Where foot of man has trod, 

We find in warp and woof of soul, 
A seeker after God. 

The truths divine that dimly shine, 

In countries far and near, 
Reveal humanities benign, 

That banish doubt and fear. 

There is a chain forged in the fane — 

The temple of the heart, 
Encircling every land and main, 

And every home and mart. 

How sped the day beneath the sway 
Of friendship's mystic wand, 

That never did our faith betray, 
By voice or eye or hand. 

There linger still the thrall and thrill 

Of organ's wondrous tone; 
The angel strain, the seraph trill, 

Would melt a heart of stone. 

The flowers sweet, on park and street, 

The beauty of the drive, 
Where foliage and fragrance meet, 

And for the mastery strive. 
184 



Red, White and Blue, the triple hue 

Of Liberty and law, 
All honor to the donor true — 

In great Swope Park I saw. 

day of days, friends with ways 

To charm, excite, inspire, 
You touch to music rhymes of praise, 

Upon my humble lyre. 

TO MISS E. M. C. 
On Receipt of Her Little Book of Verse. 

Your booklet is a treasure, 

A dainty dish of sweets; 
Or rare and rhythmic measure, 

It neither palls nor cheats. 

The gold that freely passes 
In channels wide of trade, 

Is gathered not in masses, 
With pick-axe and with spade. 

In dust its splendor gleameth 
Along the stream and shore; 

'Tis there its affluence teemeth; 
There hides its richest store. 

Large tomes of verse appall us; 

They speak a master tongue; 
The softer voices call us, 

And charm us with their song. 

TO MY MOTHER. 
On Her 90th Birthday. 

Oh loving mother, faithful wife, 
Thru spring when flowers their mission fill, 
Thru summer's heat and autumn's chill, 
Thru winter's elemental strife, 
Thou soon must end the round of life. 
185 



Long years ago when thou wert young, 
And roses bloomed about thy feet, 
And fancy pictured visions sweet, 

Thy voice was heard in notes full strong, 
Vieing with forest bird in song. 

The joys of spring soon fled away, 
On noiseless, perfume-laden wings, 
And left thee darker, sterner things, 
The toil, the heat, the heart's dismay, 
That come with life's long summer day. 

The autumn brought no plenteous yield, 
And yet there breathed not on the air 
A plaint that savored of despair; 

With heart to calm endurance steeled, 
Thou gleaned with care thy narrow field. 

The winter of thy life draws on, 
And scatters frost upon thy head; 
But ere its darkening days are fled, 
Thou'lt lay thy heavy burdens down, 
And leave the cross to wear a crown. 

The snows of winter hide a grave; 
To thy clear faith it has no gloom; 
To thee 'tis but an entrance room 

To mansions blest of Him who gave 

His only Son a world to save. 

The seasons of thy life are o'er; 
Unceasing toil has been thy dower, 
With small reward of fruit or flower; 
A richer recompense in store 
Awaits thee on the other shore. 
186 



BEYOND THE GATES 



EUGENE F. WARE. 

All nerveless is the hand, 
And voiceless is the lyre, 

Of him who could command 
Celestial fire. 

Heaven graced him with the charm — 
The love and lure of life, 

And yet he bared his arm 
In civil strife. 

He helped to build a state, 
The Union's central star, 

And sound her triumphs great 
Anear and far. 

Unsullied was his name, 
Uncalloused was his heart, 

And tho he courted fame, 
He wedded Art. 

He sang of Kansas streams, 
Her heroes, herds and hills, 

And still our souls with dreams 
His music fills. 

Sweet be thy rest, and calm, 

Beneath a genial sky, 
And thine the wreath and palm 

Of victory. 

MISS GRACE HOLADAY. 

Oh clouds, ye clouds, come weep for me, 
The fountain of my tears is dry; 

Oh winds, ye winds, come sleep for me, 
Until this storm of grief pass by. 
187 



No star in heaven shines for me, 
The moon no longer gives her light; 

No day dawns or declines for me, 
Tis one long, lamentable night. 

I saw her soul grow beautiful, 
And loved her as a little child; 

In womanhood most dutiful, 

From life's high purpose unbeguiled. 

The orange blossoms bloomed for her, 
And waited for her clustering hair; 

The roses white perfumed for her, 
The sweet and sensuous autumn air. 

Alas, there came a call for her, 

The waving of a sable plume; 
The drapery and the pall for her, 

The hearse, the cortege and the tomb. 

How dark these human histories, 
That almost turn the heart to stone; 

Oh mystery of mysteries — 

Will heaven ever make them known? 

We now can only sorrow see, 

The pallid brow, the pulseless hand; 

But know that some tomorrow we 

These hidden things shall understand. 

JOSEPH IRVING TAYLOR. 

Died Tuesday Evening, February 8, During a Heavy 
Snow Storm, Followed by a Cloudless Day. 

Without were shadows falling 

From sable wings of night; 
Within were voices calling 

A soul to heavenward flight. 

188 



As field and hill and city 
Were robed in spotless dress, 

A suffering saint, in pity, 
God robed in righteousness. 

'Twas fitting that a spirit, 

Inured to war's alarm, 
His mansion should inherit 

Mid furies of the storm. 

In gleams of purple splendor 
On earth the morning broke; 

In heaven's light so tender 
A faithful soul awoke. 

Earth has her brief adorning— 
The jeweled garb of light; 

But heaven has no morning, 
And there there is no night. 

Friend of our Elder Brother, 
Who is the Life, the Way, 

Blest, with thy father, mother, 
Be thy eternal day. 

CLARA BARTON. 

Angel of the camp and field, 
Heaven scarce a fairer owns; 

Hearts in adoration yield 

To thy brow the crown of crowns. 

Bearer of the cross of love, 
Red with sacrificial blood, 

Ever lifted high above 

Warfare's pestilential flood. 

Mid the groans that rent the air, 
When the mortars poured their rain, 
189 



Breathing thy dear name in prayer, 
Dying men forgot their pain. 

Symboled is each potent word, 

In thy service long, complete, 
Spoken by the risen Lord — 

"Here behold my hands and feet." 

To this princess of her race, 
Build no crumbling work of art; 

First and always is her place 
In humanity's great heart. 

FRANCES E. WILLARD. 

Read at the unveiling of Bronze Tablets in the 
Chanute high schools on the anniversary of her 
death, February 17, 1915. (The mother of the 
writer in the spring 1856 joined a band of sixty 
women in a crusade against the saloons at Law- 
rence, Kans., pouring out all the beer and whisky 
they could find. 

No Peri standing at the gate 

Of Eden she, disconsolate, 

With drop of sacrifical blood 

Of martyr dying on the rood, 

Nor sigh caught from a lover's breath, 

Who sealed devotion by his death, 

Nor bearing in glad triumph hence 

The tear of unfeigned penitence. 

No gifts like these had she to find, 
That some mysterious law enshrined, 
An entrance gave to Paradise, 
Exacted as reward or price. 
Not shut, nor stood the gate ajar, 
When she arose from earth afar, 
Attended by an angel throng, 
Who made the arches ring with song. 
190 



And who were there to greet this queen 
Of forces in the realm unseen; 
Who but the souls she wrought to save 
From that abyss, the drunkard's grave; 
Pale mothers rescued from distress, 
Long held by demons in duress; 
Babes, thru the pathos of her plea, 
Snatched from the pangs of penury. 

The loadstar of her life was zeal 
For man's deliverance, woman's weal, 
Surcharged with love's resistless tide, 
Like ocean currents deep and wide. 
Its orbit ran from pole to pole, 
In quest of every fainting soul, 
Allured by sin's mirage and glare 
To dreary deserts of despair. 

If envy ever finds a place 
In human hearts redeemed by grace, 
Unsteadiness may touch the feet 
Of some who walk the golden street, 
When they behold the stars that glow 
In matchless beauty on her brow, 
And see the splendor of the flame 
Of glory that begirts her name. 

THE WINDS. 
To E. C. T. 

Wind of the North, ye piercing blast 
That comes from far-off, snow-clad hills, 
And all our being coldly thrills 

As ye go sweeping wildly past, 
Fly swiftly onward, as ye rove, 
But breathe not thou upon my love. 
191 



Wind of the West, when cloud on cloud 
Is ever floating o'er the sea, 
In crimson glory, wander free, 

And wail ye mournfully and loud, 
But moan ye not above the breast 
Of my sweet one now gone to rest. 

Wind of the East with gathering mist, 
Bring in your airy ships the rain, 
And drench the hill-top and the plain, 

And lash the woodland, as ye list, 
But shut not out, as on ye move 
The sun-light, star-light from my love. 

Wind of the South, from pine and palm, 
Come, laden with your sweet perfume, 
Of lily and magnolia bloom. 

And touch our hearts with healing balm, 
And kiss the flowers into birth 
Upon my love's low mound of earth. 

NOBLE LOVELY PRENTIS. 

Men may come and men may go, 
Like shadows on the trackless plain, 

Moving fast or moving slow, 
No traces of their form remain. 

Fate or fortune seems to give 
Sublimer stars upon the birth 

Of some men that they may live 
To add new splendor to the earth. 

No dark shadows do they cast, 

While mingling with their fellow men; 
Rather leave they joys that last 

In sweet and grateful memory, when 

192 



Long have lain their bodies low, 

In silence in an honored grave, 
Where the lowly violets grow, 

And laurel branches gently wave. 

Noble spirit, thou art gone, 

Most Lovely wert thou in thy life; 

All its shadows now are flown, 
Forever ended is its strife. 

"AFTER AWHILE." 
Last Words of Rev. A. C. Hurst, D. D. 

"After awhile" — the summer time hastens; 

Its heat will no longer enkindle the blood 
With fires of disease, soon the breezes of autumn 

The fever will cool in the pulsating flood. 

"After awhile" will return the old vigor; 

The tint of the rose will mantle the cheek; 
Again to our hearts as in days that have vanished, 

His eye with its beaming affection will speak. 

"After awhile" — we knew not the meaning 

Of words that so often from patient lips fell; 

Our ears, filled with sounds of the earthl^ and 
human, 
Perceived not the echo of death's warning knell. 

"After awhile" — in the home of the blessed 
Shall life in its full and immortal tide sweep, 

Thru the spirit made perfect in love and devotion, 
When he shall awake from his last dreamless 
sleep. 

"After awhile" — a few years aweary 

We'll follow the pathway he faithfully trod; 

Until we all meet in the heavenly city 

Whose sovereign builder and maker is God. 

193 



JOHN S. GILMORE. 

He never thrilled a mighty throng 

With jubilant emotion; 
He did not rouse the crowd with song 

To frenzies of devotion. 

He never walked in senate halls, 

As some victorious leader, 
Nor was he heard within the walls 

Judicial, as a pleader. 

He could not play the demagogue, 

For money or position; 
Nor did he knowingly befog 

The eyes of true ambition. 

He never stood on platform high, 
Discussing wrongs to labor; 

Instead he sought to glorify 

The worth of friend and neighbor. 

He knew the value of a man, 
No matter what his station; 

And never dared to put a ban 
Upon his exaltation. 

He rode no hobby of reform, 

Except the resolution 
To keep his own heart true and warm, 

Toward those in destitution. 

He reverenced the goddess Truth, 

He banqueted on Beauty, 
And from the days of early youth 

His soul was sworn to duty. 

He served his race, he served his age, 
Unmoved by fear or favor, 
194 



And life was marked, on every page, 
By manhood's gracious flavor. 

His spirit burned with human love, 

And kindness was the fuel; 
A loyal heart his treasure-trove, 

And honesty his jewel. 

ON THE DROWNING OF A YOUNG LADY. 

Oh ye cruel, cruel waters, 

Taking loved ones from our sight, 

How the spirit faints and falters 
In the darkness of this night. 

Why should one in youthful vigor 
Feel the pangs of failing breath? 

Why should come the awful rigor, 
To this lovely maid, of death? 

Oh ye burning tears of pity, 
Falling from a thousand eyes, 

Of a sympathizing city, 
What oblation therein lies! 

Waters only smile in answer 
To the cry of hearts that mourn, 

When the sun, the necromancer, 
Lifts the veil the .coming morn. 

Oh the mystery of living! 

Oh the mystery of death! 
Hostages we're ever giving 

To the Avenger on our path. 

God of everlasting mercy, 

Will an answer ever come 
To the soul's deep controversy 

In such scenes of mortal gloom? 
195 



SEVENTEEN SWEET YEARS. 
Minnie Wright. 

Like the fading of a flower, 
Ere it comes to perfect bloom; 
Like the springtime's sudden gloom, 

When the gathering storm-clouds lower. 

Like the falling of a leaf 

Ere its loveliness unfold; 

Like the blight to fields of gold, 
Ere the grain is ripe for sheaf. 

Like the darkening of the day, 
In the glint and glow of morn; 
Like the young fruit rudely torn 

From the parent stem away. 

Like the losing of a chord 
From the harmonies of song; 
Like the whisper of a wrong, 

With the laudatory word. 

Like the falling of a star 

In a dark and moonless night; 
Like a song bird's sudden flight 

To a sunnier land afar. 

Thus the maiden fair has gone, 
Gone in youth's unfolding time, 
At life's dawning golden prime, 

Leaving us to weep and moan. 

Spring will bring the flowers again, 
And the birds will come and sing; 
Time and change alone can bring 

Surcease to our woe and pain. 
196 



REV. J. H. PRICE. 

Man of God, of kingly birth, 
Salt, full-savored, of the earth; 
Tho like Jesus lowly born, 
Eyes were ever toward the morn. 

Panoplied for storm and strife, 
He gave all his heart and life 
To the betterment of man, 
On the heavenly ordained plan. 

Every impulse of his soul, 
True as magnet to the pole, 
From the struggling days of youth, 
Moved with courage toward the truth. 

All his being, Spirit filled, 
Never could his voice be stilled, 
Mid the tumult of the fight, 
Waged to prosecute the Right. 

Man of God, go to thy rest, 
In the haven of the Blest, 
Saints will welcome thee above, 
Ransomed thru the Father's love. 



THE THREE KISSES. 

There is a nameless yearning within my breast 

today, 
My soul in visions turning to scenes long passed 

away. 

I see a man in sorrow, in weakness and in pain, 
And longing that tomorrow his loved he'll meet 
again. 

197 



I see the tender meeting of father and of child; 
I hear the words of greeting from lips that faintly 
smiled. 

I feel the arms so loving around me feebly thrown; 
My name his thin lips moving in whispered under- 
tone. 

I see the dim light fading out of that kindly eye, 
And on the face a shading of angels drawing nigh. 

This was the last sad greeting he gave me in this 

life; 
That night there was a meeting of husband and of 

wife. 

father old and tender the kiss thou gavest me 
The day of thy surrender to death was one of three. 

The first that I remember was when with willing 

heart 
You left us that November to do a patriot's part. 

The next was when all broken in health you home- 
ward came, 

And gave me this sweet token you loved me still 
the same. 

And hence this day this yearning, this longing in 

my breast, 
A wish within me burning to be once more caressed. 

Thy gentle lips would tremble in pity for thy son, 
When'er he would dissemble for naughty actions 
done. 

Because thy heart was gentle and loving as a child, 
Thy chastisements parental were never else than 
mild. 

198 



You made no show of loving, but hand and lip 
and eye 

Made answer in their moving to my heart's hun- 
gry cry. 

I cannot see or hear thee, for clouds that intervene, 
And yet I know I'm near thee, and soon the near- 
by scene 

Will open to my vision, and I shall feel thy kiss, 
And in the realms elysian, we'll wander far in 
bliss. 

REV. JAMES C. HALL, D.D., 

Died, Sunday, July 5, 1914. 

Class of 1866, Baker University. 

He came to us as a son of toil, 

A yeoman fresh from the virgin soil, 

With soul unstained with the things that moil, 

And a courage that shunned no duty. 
He seemed equipped for empyreal flight, 
With skylark's vision and an eagle's sight 
Of scenes surmounting the alpine hight, 

And of far surpassing beauty. 

And in those days of exultant youth, 
We climbed the alluring hills of truth, 
Altho our spirits were touched by ruth, 

Thru many a heavy burden. 
The stars that silently drip the years, 
Gave rainbow hues to our falling tears, 
Till we stood victors above our fears, 

To receive the bay-leaf guerdon. 

The seasons came and the seasons went, 
And life with life was serenely blent, 
A love upgrew that was eloquent, 

With high and unfeigned devotion. 
199 



It glowed with ever increasing flame, 
When spring departed, or winter came, 
A loyalty that belied not its name, 
And deep as the tides of ocean. 

Again I see the June roses blush, 

And hear the song of the distant thrush, 

And feel the red current's thrill and rush, 

At words of congratulation. 
From that day forward our ways diverge, 
The passing years with their ills and urge, 
Have brought us now to the utmost verge — 

Anear the terminal station. 

One link is broken, two yet remain, 

Of friendship's mystical school-day chain, 

That never has yielded beneath the strain 

That tests our affections mortal. 
Securely anchored to love's high throne 
Is she who treads now the path alone, 
Until we all shall come to our own, 

When we pass the pearly portal. 

I cannot mourn my departed friend, 
Else how could I my belief defend? 
Love rules the world to the very end, 

As well as from the beginning. 
To self and God he was always true, 
The righteous kingdom held up to view, 
And did with might what he found to do — 

This is the sum of life's inning. 

A mystery is the life of man — 
An empty dream, an abortive plan, 
An ocean's ripple, a pigmy's span, 

A breath that goes out in sighing. 
Yet some choice spirits are born to rise, 
On wings of faith to celestial skies, 
And win, thru love, the illustrious prize, 

A place with the names undying. 
200 



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